Hobo's Lullaby
by H o l o - G r a m m a t i c
Summary: An embittered Boy-who-lived and an amnesiac, pre-movie Wolverine meet in, of all places, a straw filled box-car on a speeding freight train. Oh dear... this should be interesting.
1. Chapter 1

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DISCLAIMER: H o l o - G r a m m a t i c is sad to inform you that they own neither Harry Potter or the X-men franchise. They belong to their respective creators, producers, and publishers, none of which have any relation to H o l o – G r a m m a t i c.

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Warning: This story contains shonen-ai - slash - m/m; whatever you want to call it. The probability of Lemons is minimal, _however_- if relationships involving two males bother you, H o l o – G r a m m a t i c asks that you kindly vacate the premises.

Thank-you.

In other news, beware of overly melodramatic writing tendencies and copious use of sentence fragments for stylistic purposes, as well as bi-polar mood and an inability to keep characters acting as themselves.

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Title: Hobo's Lullaby

Pairing: tentative Logan/Harry

Rating: PG-13 / R

Summary: When an embittered Harry Potter and a pre-X-Men Logan Howlett meet by chance on a train, it marks the start of one of the oddest partnerships this world has ever seen.

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**Chapter One: ** _In Which There Is Much Angst-ing, and Logan Wishes for Steak_

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So yeah, Harry Potter.

You all know the story, right? Ordinary kid, right, finds out he's a wizard, goes to a magical school, teams up with his Gryffindor buddies and fights evil? And in the end, vanquishes his enemies, lives happily ever after, and gets the girl?

Yeah, about that…

Load of stuff, the lot of it.

For one thing, I'm gay. Girls? Yeah, not really my thing.

For another, I'm not even a wizard. I mean, I was, but I'm not anymore. I got out of that business a long time ago.

About, say, three years ago, actually.

Right after I ran away and left the wizarding world behind for good.

And yes, you did read that right.

I, the great and heroic Harry Potter, ran away. I left my so-called 'friends' to their fates, and high-tailed it outta there.

And can you blame me?

Can you look deep within your soul and tell me, with complete honesty, that you wouldn't have done the exact same thing?

Cuz lets face it, deep down, most of the human race doesn't give a damn about saving others. All they really care about is themselves; them and their own frickin' happiness.

And, much as you might want to believe otherwise, I'm no different. And you know what's the best part? I'm not even human! How's that for irony?

All I want right now is food, a place to stay, and someone to take care of me. None of which I can have. Because right now, at this very moment, I am freezing my you-know-what off on top of a freight train headed who-knows-where.

More on that later.

But really, there is nothing you can say or do that will ever make me regret choosing myself over them. And I'm not just saying that cuz it sounds cool.

I'm saying this because it's true. You wanna judge me? Go ahead. But the truth is, the day I left, while in many ways the worst day of my entire eminently sucky existence, was also the day I started living.

That day, I found out that my whole life up till that point had been one big lie. My friends, my teachers, everyone I had ever trusted, had been using me, deceiving me, and _jerking me around_. I had been manipulated; used as a tool by someone I loved and trusted.

Tell me, how would you react? No different then I did.

I ran off into the night and I left them all behind. And the next time they need me to save their asses, they can just deal. They can all rot for all I care.

You know what's the worst part? I really don't care.

I know that someday Voldemort's army will be knocking on the door, and I think to myself, '_screw them!_' Who really cares if a bunch of lying, no-good, two-timing bastards are wiped off the face of the earth? In the long run, who even cares if a couple of good people die with them?

I know I don't.

So I ran. I walked out that door and I ran for it. Haven't looked back since.

So that pretty much brings us to the present. Now that you're all caught up…

I shiver, and huddle closer into myself. It really is freezing on top of this train. Words can't even express how freezing it is. My body sure can, though. It's shaking and trembling like nobody's business, and I can't feel most of my extremities. My hands are blue with cold, and I wince as I try to warm them with my breath. It's no good. Even my breath is cold, or perhaps it's whipped away by the bitter wind before it reaches my frost-bitten fingers.

Yeah, so maybe train-hopping in the middle of December wasn't the best idea after all. What can I say?

I scowl, tuck my abused hands into my armpits, and hiss through my teeth as the ice cold digits suck what little heat there is out of them.

Damn, it's freezing. What I wouldn't give for a nice fur coat right now. Or even a decent pair of boots. The ones I have now are worn to the uppers, the soft leather creased and cracking.

They're not really the most practical boots. They're thigh highs, folded over at the top to just brush mid thigh. Actually, they look a lot like the kind of boots a pirate would wear, made of dark brown leather and lined with some sort of cloth. No idea why I bought them, of course. Thigh-highs aren't really respectable these days; on girls they look like hooker boots, on guys they're just plain odd. But hey, I had some weird tastes back then. Maybe I wanted to be a pirate, of something. Maybe the Dursleys gave them to me as a joke. Who knows?

But that was back in my other life, before I left that all behind. Back when I still had money.

And, you know, a house, and clothes.

Friends…

Yeah, those were the days.

Except for the part where my relatives hated me, my house was a prison, and my friends were lying, manipulating sycophants who didn't even give a damn about me.

But yeah, apart from that, it was a real paradise, wasn't it?

I growl as a sudden wind buffets me, pushing me off balance for a split second. Instinctively I flatten my ears against my head and crouch low against the metal body of the train. I regain my balance, and reach one hand up to rub the soft black triangles nestled among the unruly curls of my hair. Cat ears.

Even after almost three years, I'm still not used to these visible signs of my non-human blood.

Because you know that 'not entirely human' thing I mentioned? Yeah, this is part of it. I'm not really sure of the details, but it would seem that somewhere back in my ancestry, cat blood got added to the mix. I don't even want to know how.

The ears showed up around my fourteenth birthday, along with a tail, fangs, and a few other minor changes of a catty-nature. (fur, etc.)

Oddly enough, I've still been unable to grow facial hair of any kind. It's not fair at all.

The ears and tail come in handy occasionally, like for balance and super sensitive hearing and stuff, but most of the time they're a nuisance.

Do you know how hard it is to fit in when you look like some kind of weirdo cat person all the time? Yeah, pretty darn hard. Not that I don't stand out anyway. What with being A) homeless and therefore really grungy, B) seventeen years old and only five foot one (I blame the cat genes. Cats are small, right?), and C) devilishly handsome, if I do say so myself, blending in is something of a lost cause.

But that doesn't matter anyway. I have nowhere I want to be. I don't fit in this world anymore; I don't belong. I can't survive in the muggle world, I'd be taken and studied for sure, and I can't and won't return to the wizarding world. I can't stand to be around those people anymore. Those people, with their snobbery and petty discrimination, their double standards, their small minded and stubborn belief that magic can solve anything—it makes me sick.

I want nothing to do with those people.

A home would be nice, of course, but that's just a dream. Like I said, there's no way I'm going back to the wizarding world, and I doubt many Normals would be willing to take in some random cat-guy off the streets.

So it looks like I'm gonna have to stick to wandering.

Actually—tell you the truth, I have no idea where I am right now. I'm not sure I'm even in Great Britain anymore. I hopped a couple of steamer ships, you see, but I didn't bother to check the destinations. I could be in China, or in America for all I know.

Though the people here seem to speak English, so I'm guessing China's out.

And judging from this miserable weather, it's nowhere tropical, either.

Which is a bummer, 'cause I always wanted to take a Caribbean vacation. Just my luck if I've ended up in Antarctica or something…

Hey, just a thought here, but maybe it would be warmer _inside _this be-damned contraption than on top? Wind-chill and all that, you know.

Mentally smacking myself upside the head for not thinking of this sooner, (What can I say? I never claimed to be a genius.) I hold my body closer to the freezing, frosted over metal that is the top of the freight car, and slink my way forwards, searching for a hatch or something along those lines. About three quarters of the along the car, I find one.

Thank the Goddess!

A few more minutes and I would've been a gonner for sure! Body fur really doesn't help all that much in 70 mile per hour winds, in case you didn't know.

Nearly sobbing with relief, and feeling warmer already in anticipation of my incipient being-sheltered-ness from the wind, I grab the handle of the small rectangular door and turn it.

Or try to, anyway. It doesn't budge. Not even an inch.

Sobbing again, this time in desperation, I try once more to open the hatch.

Nothing.

It's frozen solid, and after nearly ten minutes of tugging futilely at the handle, I realize it's not going to turn anytime soon.

I whimper; I don't wanna freeze to death out here, as I surely will if I don't find a way in there very soon. I haven't been able to feel my toes for nigh on an hour now, and my mind is running strange circuts, trying to cope with the cold and my nearing death.

In a word, this sucks ass.

…

Okay, so that was two words, but you get the picture, ne?

In a fit of rage-tinged despair, I pound my fists on the metal below me, shouting as loud as I can. "Please!" I bawl, "Please, open dammit! Open open open!"

Of course, no one can hear me. There is no one living in the small warm box beneath me, just straw and… I dunno, freight.

There could be sheep, I suppose, but unless there's some freaky speedy evolution going on down there involving opposable thumbs and the use of English, I'm out of luck.

No, there's no help for it. I'm really going to die out here, on top of a freaking train, all alone in the middle of know where. Maybe they'll find my body in the morning, frozen solid and clinging for dear life—or not, as it were—to the top of the car.

Or maybe I'll fall off, and my corpse will be lost in the deep banks of snow on the god-forsaken tundra we're gliding through.

I take a moment to contemplate these possibilities, but the only thought my tired mind will throw up is, 'how anti-climactic…'

It seems strange—most of my life I've spent waiting for death. Waiting for the Dursleys to finally break me, waiting for Voldemort to get his act together and kill me… I thought I was ready, eager, even, for the calm and peace of oblivion. I have no one left in this world; why should I wish to linger here in such a cold place?

But now… I can feel the life draining from my frail body with each passing moment, and a small shadow of doubt begins to grow in my mind.

My thoughts circle wildly, wandering paths unfamiliar to me.

_Can I really leave this world behind, even for the beauty of paradise? _

_In this world, all I have known in coldness and pain, but surely … _

…_somewhere in this world of millions… _

…_there must exist one good person …_

…_just one person who can see me… _

…_someone to care for me, hold me… _

…_maybe even…_

…_love me…_

_Surely, such a person must exist._

……_._

_And until I can find that one person, I don't want to leave this place._

I stiffen with this realization. I don't want to die. The phrase sounds so strange to my mind, but it's true. Perhaps for the first time in my seventeen years of existence, I don't want to die.

And now I have no choice.

This sucks.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing back the burning sensation of growing tears.

I will not cry. If I have nothing else, I at least have my pride.

To distract myself from the inevitability of my demise, I begin to straighten my appearance to the best of my ability. Tucking my tail beneath my meager shirt and tugging at the worst of the tangles in my mane of inky black curls, I slowly regain my grip on my composure.

_If I must die, at least I should look presentable_, I muse bitterly.

There goes my composure…

I grit my teeth, and slam my fists angrily on the icy metal of the hatch. Again and again I hurl myself against the unyielding steel, channeling all my anger, all my rage at the world into my blows, until my fists are bruised black and my knuckles begin to bleed. The hot red liquid that spills out cools quickly in the air until it's as cold as the rest of me.

Even then, I do not stop.

I don't truly expect a response, but the repetitive back and forth motion of my blows lends me some small comfort in my despair. I need this pain, this action that says that even against impossible odds, I am not giving up.

But I know that it is hopeless. I am going to die.

So when the handle suddenly turns under my hands and the hatch is flung open from the inside, I can only stare in shock at the head of tousled brown hair that emerges.

The owner of said head glances about, giving off the most pissed off aura I've ever seen. He catches sight of me and growls, "Oi, bub! Keep it down, will ya?"

And I —to my eternal embarrassment— squeak, whimper, and then topple over face first onto my savior. I, the great Harry Potter, have just fainted, and if you'll excuse me, I plan on enjoying it.

Potter out.

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Logan glared at the body that had fallen on him in a sort of disgruntled shock.

There he'd been, sleeping away the hours peacefully in his nice warm freight car, and dreaming of eating a mountain of rare steak, when some idiot hobo saw fit to wake him up, banging away at the roof and yelling to be let in.

What kind of flake rides on top of a train in the middle of December anyway? Someone completely wacko, that's who!

"Damn psycho," he grumbled unhappily, "disturbin' a person's sleep."

He'd really been enjoying that dream, too!

Narrowing his eyes suspiciously at said wacko, Logan stepped closer and none too gently kicked the person's still shoulder. Not even a twitch rewarded his actions. Satisfied by the lack of response, he dug his steel-toed boot under their side and flipped them onto their back with a grunt.

The person— boy? Girl? Logan had no idea. The chest said male, but the long (albeit dirty and tangled) hair and delicate, hairless features told him female. The person's scent was no help either; some alien scent lay over it, obscuring the usual male/female chemical signals.

Taking note of the person's attire, consisting of one large, flowing poet shirt that looked as if it had once been white but was now stained a strange yellow-grey that fell to just below the tops of his/her thighs, and a similarly beat up pair of leather thigh high boots, Logan tentatively concluded that they were female.

After all, no self-respecting member of the male half of the species would **ever** be seen wearing thigh highs.

Now that he had determined the sex of his new car-mate, Logan had to decide what to do with them. He didn't want to just leave her there, sprawled in an unnatural looking position of the cold hard floor of the car, but on the other hand his years of vagrancy had taught him to be wary of any and all strangers, even ones so harmless looking as this one.

Logan nibbled absently on his bottom lip as he thought. Perhaps if he just moved the girl onto one of the copious piles of straw that seemed to be all this car contained… that would be alright, wouldn't it? She'd live, anyway; anything beyond that was not his responsibility.

Mind made up, Logan flexed his cold and stiff muscles and stooped, roughly grabbing one leather-clad foot and dragging the girl across the floor. She made small moans of protest at this harsh treatment, but showed no further signs of waking. Logan dumped the prone body unceremoniously into the prickly straw, then retreated, settling back into his own pile, as far away from his fellow drifter as possible.

It never hurt to be cautious, after all, even if you were practically immortal.

Logan closed his eyes, letting the tension drain from his muscles.

What a day…

Slowly he slipped into the dark oblivion of Orpheus' realm, the constant low thrumming of the rails gently lulling him deeper and deeper into sleep.

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_H o l o – G r a m m a t i c hopes very much that you have enjoyed this first chapter of 'Hobo's Lullabye.'_

_H o l o – G r a m m a t i c also hopes that you will take the time to review, as more than anything they crave feedback._

_The next chapter will be up in an undetermined amount of time, depending on the amount of time available to devote to this work, and on how inspired they are._

_Thank-you._

_H o l o – G r a m m a t i c _


	2. Chapter 2

_ DISCLAIMER: H o l o - G r a m m a t i c is sad to inform you that they own neither Harry Potter or the X-men franchise. They belong to their respective creators, producers, and publishers, none of which have any relation to H o l o – G r a m m a t i c._

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Warning: This story contains shonen-ai - slash - m/m; whatever you want to call it. The probability of Lemons is minimal; however- if relationships involving two males bother you, H o l o – G r a m m a t i c asks that you kindly vacate the premises.

Thank-you.

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Title: Hobo's Lullaby

Pairing: Logan/Wolverine/Harry

Rating: PG-13 / R

Summary: When an embittered Harry Potter and a pre-X-Men Logan Howlett meet by chance on a train, it marks the start of one of the oddest partnerships this world has ever seen.

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Chapter warnings: minor swearing, minor slashy thoughts. slight gore, done in a light hearted sort of way.

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**Chapter 2- In Which there is Much Pain.**

Ironically enough, it is the sound of someone else's snoring that guides me back to wakefulness. Irony, however, is the last thing on my mind.

Unless, by irony, you mean iron-y, as in metal, as in **hard**, as in **PAIN!**

Because I am in pain. Seriously; really really painful!

You want details? Okay, lets see now… a small family of chipmunks seems to have taken up residence in my skull, and have decided to remodel the interior. Muscles I didn't even know I had are refusing to co-operate, and my skin is doing double duty as a post-modernist painting on the subject of black and blue.

Oh yes. It's that bad. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if I developed pneumonia any second now.

But, pain aside, I think I'm doing pretty well. All my major limbs seem to be attached, nothing seems broken… yep, I'm just dandy.

And, seeing as I'm just dandy, it's time for me to scram.

I roll over and push myself up off the floor, wincing slightly as stiff muscles protest their harsh treatment. Somehow I make it up, and stand unsteadily for a moment, one hand braced against the wall for balance.

I seem to have been sleeping in a pile of straw, a fact for which I am extremely grateful. After a night on a cold metal floor, I'd have been in even worse shape than I am now.

The car seems to be stationary for the moment, meaning we've reached our destination, wherever that is. I can only hope that whoever it was who saved me has already left.

I don't want to be there when they find out that the sweet, innocent little girl they thought they saved –don't ask me why, but **every** time, they think I'm a girl. I think it's karma, or something—is in fact, a man, and I **really** don't want to be there when they realize I'm not actually human. It tends not to go over very well.

"I see you're still alive, kiddo."

Apparently, the fates are not on my side. Now there's a shocker. (cough**sarcasm!**cough)

Warily, I turn to face the man, who I vaguely recognize as my savior from last night, and size him up.

It's not looking good. He was sitting down, but as I examine him he stands, muscles rippling as he moves. He's not particularly tall, about 5'10" at my best guess, but he's built like a tank, and holds himself like he's used to fighting—and winning. If it does come to a physical fight—which I really, really hope it doesn't—I'm going to be in some serious trouble.

On the other hand, he rates at least an eight on the Eye-Candy scale. Mmmm, yummy.

His hair is dark, as are his eyes, and his face is hard and determined. His clothes, like mine, are worn and grimy, though his at least are fairly standard vagrant attire: beat up leather bomber jacket, worn jeans, old t-shirt. I surreptitiously taste the air, and find his scent to be warm and smoky, like a mixture of whiskey and musk, with sweat and the smell of cigar smoke overlaying it. It's a nice scent, but that hardly means anything. Voldemort smells nice too –kinda like peaches and cream, actually- and he's a megalomaniacal mass murdering monster of a man.

Ha! Try saying that five times fast!

He (My savior, not Voldemort) is watching me just like I'm watching him, and surreptitiously I double check that my tail is curled beneath my shirt –check- and my ears are pinned tight to my head –check. Good. It might seem a bit after the fact- after all, he's already had the chance to see my more unusual assets- but I'm hoping that the darkness and traditional drifter standoffishness will have kept him from looking too closely. With any luck, I can get out of this awkward affair secret intact.

But as already mentioned, since when have I ever had any luck?

"I thought you might've kicked it sometime during the night."

I scowl at the man. "Sorry to disappoint. It's a bad habit of mine."

He gazes at me considering-ly. "You a runaway, kid?"

I blink slowly. That's not quite right, but it's close enough. "Yeah. Let's go with that."

"What for?"

I bare my teeth and snarl at him. "None of your fucking beeswax, that's what!" I don't care if he did save my life, I don't need his pity, or anyone else's.

He holds up his hands in a 'whoa there' gesture. "Hey there missy, I was just curious, no need to take my head off."

I hiss.

"I'm a **boy**, you dick-wad! Are you blind!?" Now, normally I'd play it cool with the whole gender thing, but something about this man just- well, in the words of Dudley Do-Right, he 'gets my dander up!'

...Among other things.

He twitches, and his eyes widen momentarily, but overall he takes it rather well. I'm disappointed, really. I was hoping for something a bit more fun. "You're not a…? I mean, I just kinda figured…" he trails off, his eyes wandering to my boots.

I always knew these boots would get me into trouble one day. Just goes to show, you can't trust sales people these days…

"Where the fuck are we?" I snap, crossing my arms. Curse this man for making me feel guilty. I have every right to be pissed at him- even if he did save my life. Even if I was expecting him to mess up my gender. And even if I **am **wearing rather misleading boots…. Aww, shit. And here I thought I'd left my conscience back in England.

"We're up by Rock Creek, or thereabouts. Why you askin'?"

I raise and lower my shoulders slightly, mimicking his shrug. "Just curious. Where's Rock Creek?"

"In Ontario."

Ontario… I've heard that name somewhere… "Oh! Canada…"

Is **that** where I am?

He snorts. "Yeah, kid, didn't you know? That's what we call this big frozen tundra up here."

I blink slowly at him, a small smile tugging at my lips. "Well, whaddaya know? Canada, huh?"

And here I'd thought I was in Antarctica. Although, temperature-wise, I'm not sure there's all that much difference.

The man snickers at my surprise. I flick him the bird. His snickers turn into chuckles, and then into full-fledged laughter—only to peter out abruptly as he gets a closer look at my hand.

Needless to say, it's not quite normal.

Though still functional for the most part, my fingers are shorter than usual, ending in thick, retractable black claws rather than nails, and the palm of my hand is far more like the pad of a cat's paw than a human hand. Not to mention my long sleeves have fallen back, revealing the thick layer of silver-grey fur that extends from the point where my hand joins with my wrist to just above my elbows

I pale dramatically –or at least, I think I do. As I have no mirror handy, I can't be sure—and snatch my hand back, clenching it into a fist behind my back.

Shit.

Shit, shit, damn, and fuck!

So much for getting out of this unscathed.

Wordlessly, I drop into a half crouch—a defensive position.

I figure people react in one of three ways when they find out about me- the geeks and nerds of the world wanna ask all these questions and then dissect me (not fun- trust me on this), the bleeding hearts and animal-lovers coo and want to pet me (almost less fun than the first option), and the rest of the world, the overwhelming majority, flips out and, depending on their temperament, either attacks me or runs screaming.

(Oh, and occasionally these really strange people will tackle-glomp me and demand to know where I got the great Loveless Cosplay. Yeah… I don't even know…)

Judging by the looks of this guy, I'd say hugs are the last thing on his mind.

I narrow my eyes, and wait for him to make a move.

Nothing happens.

Several seconds pass before I cautiously drop my guard, though I don't stand from my crouch- some people just have really delayed reactions. But after a whole minute passes with no movement from my rescuer/adversary, I discard that option. No one's **that** slow.

I peer uncertainly at the man. No freak-out? None at all?

I wonder if I should be insulted.

I suppose he could be one of those rare exceptions to the norm, one of those treasured few who just smile and shrug, and get on with their business. But I doubt it. That particular reaction has occurred twice- twice, in three years of wandering- that I can recall; and one of them then proceeded to try and mug me, so I'm not sure he actually counts.

The man is giving me a strange look, two parts calculating interest and one part pity.

"You gonna say something or what?" I grit out. I'm not a particularly patient person, and anything, even a negative reaction, would be better than this heavy silence.

"You're a mutant," he says at last.

Well… not quite what I was expecting, to say the least.

"I'm a what?"

**Now** he's surprised. It doesn't show much- only in the slight crook of one eyebrow and the near invisible widening of his eyes- but I can tell. Or rather, I can **smell**. You see, surprise has rather a distinct scent; hard to describe, but unforgettable once you've smelt it, and I can smell it now.

"You don't even know what a mutant is? Kid, don't you ever watch the news?"

I scowl. Oh, yeah, all the time. And afterwards I take a bubble bath in my Jacuzzi tub and iron my Armani suit. Do I **look** like I have the time and resources to keep up with the times?

I don't deign his question with an answer, and eventually he sighs. "You have got to be kidding me. You and me kid, we're mutants. Humans- ex-humans, I guess- whose DNA is different from everyone else's- make's 'em stronger, gives 'em some sort of power-"

"What kind of power?" This is starting to sound familiar. I have only the vaguest idea what DNA is, but the rest of it? Powers and such? If he says anything at all about magic, I'm going to be **very** upset.

"It's different from mutant to mutant. Some can do stuff like read minds, or blow things up just by wishing it… and some are like you, some sort of visible mutation."

I hold back a sigh of relief. I can't say I really understand most of this, but at least it doesn't sound like any kind of wizarding magic I've ever heard of. Thank goodness for small wonders.

I scrunch up my mouth and squint one eye, tipping my head to the right. This is my thinking face- don't ask why, it just is. I need time to absorb this new information.

It does make sense, really. Prior to now, I'd just shrugged off my half-cat state, attributing it to a vague notion of animagus grandparents having a frolic with unfortunate consequences nine months later.

**Eugh**! I **so** did not need that image in my head- this is why I try not to think about this in the first place.

He's watching me, waiting for me to say something- thank him, maybe, for explaining the mystery of my existence.

Yeah right. Even if this does answer some lingering questions, it's not like it changes anything- I'm still a cat-boy, and I'm still homeless. This is just one more useless fact for my collection.

I look sharply back at the man, realizing something.

"Hey, you said people like you and me; you're—like me?"

It's hard to believe that anyone's 'like me', but the word _mutant_ feels

He grins. "Wolverine." He holds up one hand, three gleaming silver blades sliding slowly from his knuckles.

Now that's just **cool.**

"Pretty neat, huh?"

Fully extended, they're about the length of his forearm- I'd hate to think where they go when he's not using them- and although they look like silver at first glance, I'm pretty sure they're not. Aside from the fact that silver is far too soft for blades, this metal doesn't smell like silver- or any other metal I've encountered.

"Doesn't that hurt?" I ask, suddenly wondering how he doesn't have giant gaping wounds on his knuckles all the time.

He shrugs, the knives sliding back into his fists. The skin knits itself neatly back together, doing the work of several weeks in mere seconds. "I heal fast."

No kidding.

"Didn't anyone bother telling you what you were?" he asks abruptly.

I shudder. "They were too busy trying to kill me, to try and talk to me."

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_I don't like to remember the day I- is turned the right word? (There seem to be rather a lot of things I don't like to remember, come to think of it. I guess it's just another side-affect of having a sucky life.) _

_It was a couple days before I turned fourteen- I was spending the summer with the Dursleys—as usual—and bored out of my bleeding mind—as usual—and my darling uncle had decided that his fist and my face should really get to know each other better-- as usual. What was __**not**__ usual was the irresistible urge I felt to bite his throat out. _

_Now, kill him, yes, that would be normal, but throat-ripping? That was a first._

_But the thing about irresistible urges is that they're— well, irresistible. _

_Long story short—I ripped his throat out. _

_Hey, what can I say? The guy was a dick! _

_I'm not entirely clear on what happened afterwards- I was a bit out of it, by then, acting purely off of newfound instincts- but I do remember a lot of pain, and my aunt screaming when she found her husband bleeding out on the floor and me crouched him, bathed in his blood and bits of flesh dangling from my bright-shiny new fangs._

_I wonder, though, if she was screaming because of that, or because of the blood I'd just gotten all over her brand new rug?_

_All I knew right then was that her shrill screaming was hurting my ears, and I wanted it to stop. One ripped out throat later- well, she definitely wasn't screaming anymore._

_And then I was writhing in pain, howling my agony to the high heavens as my spinal cord stretched and grew to accommodate my new tail, and my ears migrated to the top of my skull, and all the myriad other little changes that come with being a cat-boy inflicted themselves onto my poor, abused body._

_I can't imagine how bad were-wolves have it- they go through that every month. I think I'd go insane._

_It was bliss when I passed out from the pain—but that bliss didn't last long._

_o0o0o_

I shake myself, pushing back the darkness brought up by my trip down memory lane. _Don't think about it- just forget it, ignore it. What's past is past._

Repression is such a useful trick, isn't it?

I force a smile in answer to Wolverine's questioning look, and tell him, "I'm Kit."

Hah! Did you really think I would tell him my real name? Puh-lease! Even if it weren't for the fact that using it might bring down wizards on my head, the name he gave was clearly an alias- and if he can give a false name, so can I!

Wolverine smirks. "Kit? Short for Kitten, right?"

I glare. Alright, so I admit it's not the cleverest alias I've ever come up with- no, that spot is reserved for Egbert Lee von Jingleheimer II, the name I gave to my arresting officer this one time when I was caught poaching sheep off some cattle-baron's land- but for a name come up with in about two seconds flat, I rather like it.

"There's nothing wrong with kittens," I say primly, and Wolverine shrugs.

"Whatever you say… Kitten."

I blush, and stalk past him, trying to ignore the slight flutter my heart gives at hearing what amounts to a pet name from the lips of this stranger. Maybe the name wasn't such a good idea after all.

It's to be expected, I suppose. After all, what red-blooded, homosexual, wizard turned cat-boy wouldn't flutter a bit over a mysterious stranger with knives built into his hands (have I mentioned how **awesome** that is?) and hair that's to die for? And wearing, might I add, a pair of jeans that fit him like a dream?

Yeah, that's right. You'd be fluttering too if you could see those jeans.

"Why are you even still here?" I demand, pushing away all thoughts of hard, muscled thighs and long, _thick—_Ack. This repressing thing isn't working as well as I thought it would.

"What do you mean, 'why am I here?' It's not like I was gonna just leave you here, kid. I'm not **that** much of an ass."

"Well, yeah, but you could have just checked that I made it through the night and then ditched me. That's what most people would do."

A single dark eyebrow lifts ever so slightly. "You're way too cynical, kiddo. You need to lighten up."

"Oh yeah, well…shut up." If there were a list somewhere of my most brilliant retorts, I can guarantee you that that one- was **not**on it. But oh well- one can't be brilliant **all** the time. And he's probably right, anyway. Usually I'm a lot more fun- no, really, I am- it's just that **almost dying **tends to make me a little cranky.

"How do we get out of here?" I say, in a softer tone than usual. This is as close as he's gonna get to an apology out of me. I don't **do** apologies- frankly they bore me. So he'd better be grateful.

Wolverine let's the matter drop, pointing up. "Same way you came in, bub. Straight up."

"Please tell me you're joking."

Remember that pain I mentioned earlier? Yeah, it's still here. Getting better, but still, I'm far from tip-top shape, and in anything less than tip-top shape, my chances of being able to climb out of here are slim. Slimmer than slim, really. Like, nil.

Wolverine laughs at the look on my face. "I'll give you a boost. Now let's go, before this train decides to take off again."

I look at the hand he's holding out to me, then at his face, and back again. I'm not entirely sure I can trust this guy- he could be a molester or a killer for all I know- but then again, I don't trust anyone, regardless of who they are. So why shouldn't I go with him?

After all, what kind of teenager would I be if I weren't a little reckless now and again?

I grab his hand, so much bigger than my small paw, and allow him to toss me skywards.

I have a feeling that my life's about to get so much more interesting.

* * *

Authour's note: H o l o - G r a m m a t i c would like to thank you all for your wonderful feedback for the last chapter. they never expected such a response, and are overjoyed that you are enjoying the story so far.

they would also like to say that they do not like this chapter. they don't think it came out as well as it should have, and would like to make that very clear. (they blame Logan. he was a bitch about staying in character.)

so please, make the Authour(s) feel better by leaving a reveiw on your way out.

Thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER: H o l o - G r a m m a t i c is sad to inform you that they own neither Harry Potter or the X-men franchise. They belong to their respective creators, producers, and publishers, none of which have any relation to H o l o – G r a m m a t i c.

* * *

Warning: This story contains shonen-ai - slash - m/m; whatever you want to call it. The probability of Lemons is minimal; however- if relationships involving two males bother you, H o l o – G r a m m a t i c asks that you kindly vacate the premises.

Thank-you.

* * *

Title: Hobo's Lullaby

Pairing: Tentatively Logan/Harry. H o l o - G r a m m a t i c is having second thoughts on that one.

Rating: PG-13 / R

* * *

Summary: When an embittered Harry Potter and a pre-X-Men Logan Howlett meet by chance on a train, it marks the start of one of the oddest partnerships this world has ever seen.

* * *

**0**

**o**

**0**

**Chapter 3- In Which There is Awkward Small-Talk and Harry Continues to Angst**

The weather was slightly better now that it was day- Logan judged that the temperature was in the twenties, rather than somewhere below zero, and the sun had decided to show itself, although a haze of clouds was threatening to pass across its face any minute now.

Logan and his—he supposed the best word would be companion, since random-person-he-met-while-train-hopping was a bit of a mouthful- trudged through the ever-present snow, a heavy silence hanging between them. Occasionally one of them made some sort of comment- usually Logan- but all attempts to make conversation fell flat. It seemed Kit had turned shy.

Logan wasn't quite sure what to make of the kid; he was a mutant, and judging by his appearance, a feral one like himself, but beyond that, Logan knew nothing about him. A runaway, the kid had said- or actually, Logan realized, _he_ had called him that, and Kit had simply agreed. So perhaps not.

* * *

"So, what are your plans now, kid?"

They were sitting at the counter of some third-rate diner, devouring a meal Logan was almost sure they couldn't afford. The cat-boy had been reluctant to enter at first –

"_No way, are you crazy?! Your mutation might be hard to see, but mine sure ain't!"_

—until Logan had gotten fed up and shoved a hat on his head, solving two problems at once—hiding both the boy's ears and his truly filthy hair. Hiding the rest was simply a matter of tucking the tail up the back of his shirt and donning a pair of Logan's gloves.

Logan wasn't quite sure why they hadn't split up yet- God knows the kid seemed anxious enough to ditch him- but somehow here they were, eating questionable burgers and trying to fill the silence with small talk.

It was failing miserably, needless to say.

The boy shrugged. "Plans aren't really my style. I'm more of a go with the flow sorta person. _Que sera sera_, ne? I'll find a place to sleep, I guess; maybe earn some cash…" he trailed off, shrugging.

"How?" Logan asked, genuinely curious, "No offence, kid, but you're hardly the type of person who can get a job."

The boy- Kit, apparently, though Logan was certain that wasn't his real name- narrowed his eyes, his lip curling slightly in disdain. "That's really none of your business, is it?"

Logan restrained a frustrated growl. "It was just a question. You know, kiddo, no one's ever gonna like you if you don't stop being so defensive all the time."

Kit snorted, "Oh yeah, cuz that's totally my main priority. I don't need your help, Gramps- I don't need anyone."

"That why you left home?" Logan questioned, ignoring the Gramps dig- for now- "'cause you don't need anyone? That's crap, Bub- everyone needs someone."

He winced internally at how preachy he sounded. Not to mention hypocritical, since he himself was living the life he was trying to talk this kid out of—but it was different for him. He was a grown adult, perfectly able to take care of himself. But Kitten... he was just a child. Logan wasn't sure how old exactly he was, but he was guessing around thirteen or fourteen- though that was a bit young for a mutation to show. The point was, he was a kid. And despite all his best efforts to fit the rough and tough drifter model, Logan rather liked kids. Sure, they were annoying as hell, but he had a soft spot for the little buggers, and the streets was no place for a kid to grow up-especially not alone.

Kit, however, didn't seem to agree with him on that. "I **left** because I wasn't wanted! That place was hell, alright? I'm **not** going back."

Logan flinched at the very clear implications there. He'd really put his food in it, hadn't he?

Kit rolled his shoulders, causing Logan to wince at the loud popping of his stiff joints. That had to be painful. "Maybe everyone needs someone, but I'm not everybody, am I?" Kit whispered, barely a hint of his anger left in his voice. He gestured deprecatingly at his ears, hidden though they were beneath the cap. "I get it- you're trying to help me- but it's not worth it- I can't _be _normal, can I? So just drop it, okay?"

Logan dropped it. Like a brick.

They ate in a heavy silence for the next few minutes, listening to the quiet roar of the street outside and the obnoxious, twang-y strains of the country music playing from the juke-box in the corner.

"So that's it then," Logan said at last, "You're just gonna wander around homeless and friendless for the rest of your life. Seems pretty miserable to me, Bub."

Kit shrugged listlessly. "So I'm a masochist. What difference does it make to you?" he whispered, his voice just shy of breaking. "You gonna be my friend and mentor, or something?" He snorted at the idea. "No. Everyone leaves you in the end- friends betray you, mentors lie, and lovers- they just break your heart."

Logan bit his lip. "I—" He couldn't really tell the kid otherwise, could he? Kit was right- extremely cynical and jaded, of course, and of course that wasn't always true, but often that was what happened. That was life.

"Not everyone is like that," he managed to say. He was no good at all this feelings crap- he'd be more comfortable talking about death and killing. "Sure, some of 'em—maybe even most of 'em—are, but you just have to keep picking through the trash until you find the good people."

He let out a breath- that had gone rather well, he thought.

And Kit snorted, completely ruining the mood. "Thank you, Mr. Fortune Cookie. God, can you be **any** more tacky?"

Logan grinned lopsidedly, back on familiar ground- thank God. "Fine, fine, just insult my ancient Chinese wisdom, why don't you?" he told the disgusted youth, feigning insult. "Jeesh. I was just trying to help…"

Kit smiled. "Yeah, well… don't."

Logan paused for a moment. He was probably going to regret this, but... "You know… I just so happen to have a truck-"

"What! Then why the hell were you on a freight train?!" Kit spluttered.

Logan scratched his head awkwardly. "Well... I'm not entirely sure where it is at the moment," he admitted. "Anyway, there's an extra seat- it's yours, if you want it."

Kit blinked "What the frick am I supposed to do with a truck seat?"

Logan glared. "I'm offering you a ride, smart-ass. A long term kinda thing."

The cat-boy's face fell. "Oh."

Logan waited. "…So? What do you say?"

His eyes searched Kit's face for some form of answer- he sighed at what he saw.

The kid was gonna say no.

"Won't even consider it, huh?"

The black haired youth stood abruptly, his stool screeching loudly across the tiled floor, and downed the last few inches of his lukewarm drink. "Thanks for the food, Mister," he chirped, but it seemed forced. "I'm outta here."

He walked halfway to the door, hesitated, and turned back. His jaded green eyes narrowed, staring calculatingly at Wolverine for a number of seconds, and then, slowly, he walked back.

Logan barely had time to wonder what he was doing before the kid had him wrapped in a tight hug. His eyes widened. What the hell? What happened to Mr. I'm-so-bitchy-and-jaded?

"Thanks for trying, Mister," a small voice whispered in his ear, "but it's too late for me to be fixed. I've been this way far too long for that."

Logan stood frozen, unsure of what to do- the kid had his arms pinned, so hugging back wasn't really an option, and he wasn't really into displays of affection anyways. And then Kit drew back, just as suddenly as he'd come.

Logan felt oddly bereft at the loss.

The kid left, pausing just a moment to twiddle his fingers at Logan through the window. "_See you 'round, Wolfie_," he mouthed, and then he was gone, disappeared out the door and into the street.

Logan sat there, slightly stunned.

So that was it, then—an outpouring of truth and angst, and then the boy just up and left?

Weird kid.

But then- like Kit had said, it was really none of Logan's business what he did, was it? He was just some random guy, one of a thousand other runaways Logan could have saved.

He sighed, taking a long draught of his beer.

Ah well- as the kid had said, '_Que sera sera,_ ne?'

The boy was smart- he must be, to have survived this long on the streets. So he'd be fine.

Really.

…Probably.

"Ahm… excuse me, sir?"

It was the waitress, eyeing the empty plates in front of him. "Are you ready to pay for that?"

Logan smiled half-heartedly at her- she was a pretty thing, with short blond hair and a round, smiling face- but he wasn't interested right now. "Sure thing, lady," he sighed, and reached into the breast pocket of his leather jacket to retrieve his wallet.

His fingers met with nothing.

"Sir?"

Logan's eye's bugged.

"Sir, are you all right?"

"That little **bitch**!!"

"Sir!?"

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Several blocks away, in a small side alley, Harry smirked, and patted his brand new wallet.

"Oh yeah—fake angst routine. Gets 'em every time…" he crowed.

The seventeen year old ex-wizard laughed happily, and broke into a scampering run, chasing after phantom snowflakes.

He was warm, fed, and thanks to Wolverine, loaded with dough.

What more could a cat-boy want?

o0oo0o0o0o0o0o0oo

* * *

And there you have it- a whole chapter from Logan's PoV- and in 3rd person to boot! We thought it went rather well. slightly shorter than usual, but overall, not bad at all.

there's just a few chapters left of the opening before the actual plot starts- and we have a question: Holo-Grammatic's original plan was to simply follow the plot of the first movie, but do you want us to come up with a more original plot? It's not really our strong point, but if you have an idea that you want us to use, feel free to tell us and we'll try to work it in!

Your thoughts are appreciated, as always- drop a review on your way out, and tell us what you thought!

(Oh and also- if we were to write a HP/Peter Pettigrew fic, would anyone read it? It would be time travel, and slightly AU, with Harry going back in time to stop Peter from betraying his parents, but while doing so, accidentally falling in love w/ him. it would explore Peter's reasons for his betrayal, and would be slightly AU. if it sound like something you'd read, please tell us!)

Thank you and good night!


	4. Chapter 4

DISCLAIMER: H o l o - G r a m m a t i c is sad to inform you that they own neither Harry Potter or the X-men franchise. They belong to their respective creators, producers, and publishers, none of which have any relation to H o l o – G r a m m a t i c.

Warning: This story contains shonen-ai - slash - m/m; whatever you want to call it. The probability of Lemons is minimal, however: if relationships involving two males bother you, H o l o – G r a m m a t i c asks that you kindly vacate the premises.

Thank-you.

Title: Hobo's Lullaby

Pairing: Logan/Wolverine/Harry

Rating: PG-13 / R

Summary: When an embittered Harry Potter and a pre-X-Men Logan Howlett meet by chance on a train, it marks the start of one of the oddest partnerships this world has ever seen.

Authour' Note: ummm… hey guys…. Thanks for all the reviews and alerts! Ummm… we might as well just put it out there. You're going to be so pissed. I know we promised you we'd worked out our plot issues, but- they kinda resurfaced… and the entire last chapter had to be scrapped. hides behind tree WE'RE REAALY SOORY! Hopefully, the extra long chapter will appease the wrath- we'd rather not be killed. And we promise not to let this happen again! really!

On another note, you'll be glad to hear that we've finally managed to agree on an overarching plot for this monster; now, it needs some tweaking and polishing, but it's a mixture of both original plot and the movie plot- hopefully it'll turn out okay! OK, so after that long AN, without further ado, I give you the chapter!

**Chapter 4: In Which There is Much Yelling.**

"Three hundred bucks? Are you fucking kidding me? There's no way I'm paying that much for just measly hand-job from a scrawny, half-pint little boy. Get out of here, you filthy gold-digging whore." The man yelling was older, in his late forties or fifties at least, and balding. A slight paunch was forming above his belt-line, clearly the product of too much leisure and too little exercise. His small, puffy eyes were squinched shut in anger, and Harry could see small specks of spittle flying from between his lips. All in all, Harry had seen better- but then, beggars can't be choosers, now can they?

The disguised mutant rolled his shoulders in a half-shrug at the fuming office-worker, his lips twitching into a smirk. "If you're sure," he drawled lazily, "it's your loss. If you happen to change your mind, I'll be here all night."

The would-be john growled angrily and stalked away, muttering to himself about uppity prostitutes and what was this world coming to. Harry rather wondered the same thing himself.

He'd skipped towns numerous times in the last few weeks, catching rides with various truckers and such; he was hoping to deter any passing thoughts that that Wolverine character might have in the neighborhood of bloody revenge.

Apparently, this particular town was full of up-tight business men with too much libido and too little time. And apparently, too little money. Harry cackled quietly. Even less, now. The middle-aged man's wallet was sitting cozily in one of his many pockets, the heavy weight of the leather and cloth square hanging comfortingly against his leg. The man hadn't even noticed Harry lifting it, too pre-occupied with what his **other** hand was doing.

He rubbed the fingers of that hand, grimacing slightly. He'd have to scrub it multiple times before he felt comfortable using it for anything now. No matter how many times he pulled that scam, the whole slut-for-hire thing had always made him just slightly uncomfortable. He may have no morals, but he drew the line at sleeping with strangers for money. Stealing, yes, even the occasional non-injurious mugging (he'd once snuck up behind a man, stuck him in the back of the neck with a bottle and convinced him it was a gun. He'd gotten a good five hundred dollars out of that scheme.), but selling himself was far too risky, in Harry's book- too many weirdoes looking for someone to cater to their kink, and too many STDs. But he was careful, at least- Harry always made sure to claim a price far above reasonable, and never picked a mark who looked like they might push things. Getting raped was _way _far down on his to-do list.

Harry absently stroked the soft skin of the stolen wallet with one hand, the smug satisfaction of a job well done rising up and quashing his lingering distaste. Double-checking that the wallet's real owner was well on his way, Harry smugly tugged the wallet from his pants, flipping it open and beginning to leaf through the bills inside.

"Ten, twenty, forty…" he muttered, counting up his earnings. The final tally was 180 dollars, and a couple of credit cards Harry figured he could squeeze a few hundred out of, if he worked fast and could figure out the PIN number. All in all, he decided, not too shabby. It should last him at least a week, maybe more.

And first things first, he knew exactly what he was going to do with his illicit gains.

Humming slightly to himself, Harry sauntered to the mouth of his dark alleyway and back out onto more respectable streets. There was a fish-market the next block over that was calling his name.

0o0oo00oo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

"Whiskey. Straight up, no ice."

The young bartender gratefully scrambled away from the small crowd of admirers who'd been trying to chat her up to get down the bottle of Jack Daniels, a clear look of relief on her pretty face. The assorted truckers and general sleaze-balls gave Logan the hairy-eyeball, and he shrugged casually.

What can you do?

The young woman slipped, her high heeled shoes skidding in a small puddle of alcohol that Logan knew for a fact she had spilled not five minutes earlier, and been too frazzled to clear up. Logan got the feeling that this was a new job for her. He watched in carefully hidden amusement as the girl stumbled her way through the simple steps of pouring the shot. She was pretty, he decided; not gorgeous, or anything, but- well. His eyes tried to wander to the two large, soft looking appendages that graced her chest. Busty was probably the best way to put it. The young woman dropped a glass, barely managing to keep it from falling off the counter, and Logan twitched a smile. The woman was also very clumsy. When she at last got her act together and, blushing furiously, placed his shot before him, Logan offered her a small nod of thanks. "Thanks, missy. It gets easier with practice, you know," he offered, "Just relax and don't let the assholes bother you."

Her eyes widened. "That obvious?" she whispered, and Logan nodded wryly.

She turned an even brighter crimson, if that was possible, and slumped down on the counter. "I keep trying to tell Earl that I'm not suited for this job, but you know men- they'll use anything to draw in customers, and this," she gestured deprecatingly to her rather large breasts, "is a pretty good draw. At least till I start dropping their drinks on them."

Logan smirked, and tossed back his shot. "A lap full of sour beer is the least most of these dicks deserve. Get me another one?"

She flashed a shy grin at him and left to fetch him another drink.

Logan sighed in content, grateful for the small comforts of the bar. He was getting _really_ tired of chasing this kid all over the country. In the last week alone, he'd tracked the wallet thief –both by scent and more conventional means –through three towns and over four hundred miles of back roads and highways. The feral mutant was pretty sure that his ass was permanently numb by now.

Logan kicked grumpily at the edge of the counter, huffing under his breath. When he caught up with Kit, the teen was so going to regret ever messing with him.

Logan drummed his fingers on the stained, worn wood. He didn't take well to being scammed, and even worse to having his —severely out of tune— heart-strings played upon like they were the kid's own personal lute.

He still couldn't believe that he'd been well and truly taken in by Kit's fake sob story. He must be losing his touch.

A body abruptly slid onto the stool next to him, startling Logan from his brooding.

"Bourbon," the man snapped. "No ice, bit of lime in it. And make it snappy."

Logan gazed down at the few drops remaining in his glass. He wondered if he could drain them out of it, or if they would just stick there until the shot glass was rinsed out.

"Hey girlie, where's my drink?" the newcomer griped impatiently. The bartender squeaked. "Sorry, sorry; I'll get right on it!"

The rude man growled. "Stupid, incompetent bint." He rapped loudly on the counter-top, and the bartender jumped, nearly dropping the bottle she was holding. The man snickered vindictively.

Logan rolled his eyes. "What's your problem, Bub? Why don't you just let the lady do her job?"

The other laughed, high and thin and reedy. "Listen, muscles," he whined, "I'm not telling you what to do; so why don't you mind your own business, and I'll mind mine?"

Logan turned to fully face the man for the first time, allowing the other to take in his intimidating figure. "Sure thing," he said amiably, "so long as 'your business' don't involve hecklin' that girl over there."

"Whatever," the man muttered; he glared, but subsided. Logan eyed him—mid-forties, thinning gray hair, and a sour expression gracing an unremarkable face. Typical idiot normie; not worth his time. The mutant shook his head and turned back to contemplation of his drink.

One half hour and several shots of alcohol later, his neighbor spoke again, this time to complain.

"I mean…wha' the… th' hell, man? Who charges…tha' much?"

Logan studiously ignored the drunk. He himself, though having consumed far more whiskey, was only slightly buzzed. His mutation messed with his metabolism and made it damn hard to get properly drunk.

"Stupid whore… god, I mean… three hunnerd bucks…fer' a han'-job? jeezus… 's jus not worth 't"

Logan sighed. It just figured that his unwelcome drinking buddy would be a talkative drink. He really wasn't in the mood to hear about this dick's sexual exploits—or lack there-of. The lady bartender, just coming back from further down the bar and bearing yet another bourbon and a whiskey for the mutant, looked decidedly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. And it only got worse.

" 's like… kids these days, ye know? No res… reps… no 'spect fer their elders. Tha' boy wuz jus' beggin' fer a good fuck. Three hunnred bucks, my ass." He trailed off into a brooding silence, and Logan felt his stomach roil. A kid- who ever this dick next to him was going on about, they had been a kid, selling themselves on the street. That was just messed up. He glanced at the young bartender; she looked horrified, and slightly green around the gills. Though that might have been caused by the drunkenly speculative look the creep was now giving her.

"I don' s'pose tha' you'd like t' give a suffrin' man some comfert, hey missy?" he crooned in what Logan guessed he thought was a seductive purr; it sounded rather more like a wounded giraffe bellowing out its death cry, but each to his own, Logan supposed.

The young woman cringed as the man's putrid breath, practically its own entity, invaded her personal space.

"as –charming, really –as your offer is, I'm going to have to decline, sir," she murmured, taking refuge in icy politeness in the face of his staring, glassy gaze. The patron slumped dejectedly.

"yer so cold, wumman… what, d' you wan' my fortune too? Cuz' lemme tell ya'—I got's nothin'. Naaaaaada." He drew the syllable out long and whiny. "Sshhtupid cunt lif'd my wa—my wull…. Yeh know… the thingy- with money in."

Logan snapped back to attention at that. The prostitute had stolen his wallet?

"Wait- you mean to tell me that you've just drunk about 80 dollars worth of liquor and you're _broke_?" the barmaid exclaimed angrily. "What the hell!"

"Sh'fine," he slurred morosely, "It'sh all fine, girlie. Cos… 'cos _I… am… awesome!_" He trailed off into a very off-key, ear-bleed inducing rendition of 'Last Train to Awesome Town'. Logan shuddered. It was already a truly terrible song, and this guy's singing talent was only making it worse.

But he had other things to think about. Logan pretty much figured anyone this stupid and this obnoxious was pretty much asking for their wallet to get stolen, but it wasn't so much the theft itself as the thief's MO that drew his attention.

"This hooker- they were a dude, right?" he questioned abruptly, cutting off the terrible din in the middle of the verse about nachos. Logan couldn't say he was too upset about the loss.

The drunk flapped a hand carelessly, nearly braining Logan with his half empty shot-glass. "Boy, shmoy… hard t' say, yeah? He was kinda like…" he waved his hands again "ye know. Pretty. 'E said he was a guy, though… I figger 'e'd know bettr'n me…"

The feral mutant felt his blood singing in his veins. It was a stretch, sure, but- a scam like that sounded right up the brat's alley—and the description, garbled as it was, fit as well.

After weeks following only a scent and various angry accounts of a small, black haired scam artist, _this,_ finally, was something _solid._ There was only one thing left to confirm.

Logan grabbed the man by the shirt collar, pulling him right up against his chest. The drunk squealed like a pig, flailing wildly. "Oi- pu' me down, ye huge beashtie! I din do nuthin'!"

Said 'huge beastie' ignored the man's protests and tugged the collar right up to his face, inhaling deeply. Tuning out the indignant wails of "what the hell, man?", Logan sifted through the scents on the shirt.

Booze- no surprise there. Cigarettes- again, can we say shock and awe. No, really. We're astounded. Sweat, sperm, and perfume, probably from a different hooker, or some other encounter.

And there, underneath it all, was the scent of cream and cinnamon, and a tiny hint of some exotic floral scent. Jasmine, maybe, or orchids.

Logan breathed out. That was it- the scent he'd been chasing after.

A fleshy fist made glancing contact with his abdomen, and Logan dropped the man in disgust. "You son of a bitch," he growled to no one in particular, "You're so dead when I catch up with you."

The sprawling drunkard on the stained floor of the bar wailed. "But I din' do nuthin! Honest!"

Logan kicked him absently, then offered the wide-eyed barmaid a glowing smile. "If you'll excuse us, missy; this man an' I got some business to attend to."

He hauled the drunk to his feet by the scruff of his neck, where he stood, beet red in the face and swaying precariously. Logan kept a judicious hand on his collar, just in case.

He tossed a couple of twenties on the counter. "that's for my tab; and this," Logan grinned and slid the man's expensive watch from his limp wrist. "is for his. Have a nice night, missy."

He sauntered from the bar, dragging the terrified and bewildered office-worker behind him.

"But I din' _do_ nuffin!" he wailed.

00o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

"This it then- you sure about that?"

The bedraggled man nodded frantically. "Sure is, cross my heart an' 'ope to die!"

Logan eyed the dark alleyway with suspicion. It didn't look to promising, all gloomy corners and shattered cobblestones, but then, it _was_ a dark alleyway- Logan was fairly sure they were supposed to look this way.

"Right. Now shove off," he growled to his unwilling guide, "Try not to get hit by a car on your way out."

The mousy man nodded, and shot out of that alleyway so fast, Logan swore he heard the sound barrier breaking. Or maybe that was just a rock going through a nearby window; it was so hard to tell with these things.

He was so close; so close to catching the brat, he could taste it. And when he got his hands on him, he would—well, actually he'd never really planned that far. Mostly he'd been so focused on finding the kid to extract his bloody revenge, he hadn't actually thought much about how he was going to get said bloody revenge.

Logan set his jaw. Whatever it was, it was sure to be bloody, and….revenge-ful… and stuff.

Right.

Logan grinned, sharp edged. The feral animal inside of him was baying in pleasure, begging for its release. All things leading up to this moment had just been anticipation. Now, here, with the scent of his prey lingering in the still air; now, the hunt would begin.

Wiping his hands on his battered jeans to try and get the stench of human sweat off them, the feral shrugged deeper into his bomber jacket and slid, silent and deadly, into the mouth of the darkness.

O0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Harry burbled happily to himself, tail lashing, set free in the confines of his cosy little home. Said home consisted of a couple of cardboard boxes, a few magazines, and a crap-load of Duct Tape, but still- a home is a home, and Harry was damn well going to call it such.

And why shouldn't he be happy? His stomach was full of legally obtained fish, his skin was relatively clean after being scrubbed raw in a handy public shower he stumbled across, and he had a roof- of a sorts- over his ear adorned head. In Harry's world, this meant life was good. He snuggled down into his cement bed, curling up in contentment.

A few minutes later, just as Harry was drifting off into salmon scented dreams, the sound of a window breaking shattered the silence.

Or it could have been the sound of the sound barrier breaking; it was so hard to tell with these things…

Harry startled upright, looking for the source of the sound. It had sounded quite close.

"Dammit, McCaulay, are you trying to wake the whole neighborhood?"

The words were spoken in a hushed whisper, but the night breeze carried sound farther than one might think in the narrow corridors of the back streets, and Harry had chosen his spot carefully. Even a quiet whisper as far away as the next street was audible from this alcove—and Harry's ears were sharper than most.

"Thrice-cursed scum," a second voice muttered, "can't believe we got stuck with this job."

"Yeah, well maybe if you could learn to keep your mouth shut about the Minister, we wouldn't be perpetually on punishment duty. Honestly, Andre, even you should know better than to call him incompetent to his face- you can't have imagined that would go over well."

"Well it's the truth," the other complained, "I mean, honestly! The man tried to offer the Mermish Ambassador _dolphin steaks_. How Fudge _ever_ got the job, I have no idea."

Harry cringed. Aurors; newbies from the sound of it, but nonetheless he had been rather hoping to avoid the Minister's lackeys in this country.

After he'd shot out of England all engines firing, things had gone to seed like a spring dandelion: swiftly, silently, and with widespread consequences. Harry hadn't exactly been following it, nor had he exactly had time while on the run to sit down and think of dear old England, but from what he'd gleaned from the occasional newspaper and overheard conversations, the situation back 'home' was rapidly approaching an all out, no holds barred, war. Voldemort had yet to regain a corporeal body, but with the Harry's abrupt departure the Light was in a shambles. Lucius Malfoy, shark-like as always in his ability to sense blood in the water, had seized to opportunity to muster the Dark Lord's remaining followers and set about taking Wizarding Britain right back to where it was fourteen years before, during the height of the First War. Harry wasn't particularly surprised by the swift deterioration; the few times he'd met Lucius, the older man had been calculating and pristinely logical- rather like a reptile. While a deplorable quality in a general sense, for a commander of a terrorist group, Lucius' cold mentality was a great advantage.

The rest of the Wizarding World was doing its best to contain the situation, but beyond setting up a perimeter around the island and essentially quarantining the whole nation, there wasn't much they could do. No one wanted to get involved in the internal affairs of another nation, especially not without knowing who would come out on top.

Inside Britain itself, the Ministry was scrambling, desperately trying to confront Lucius' forces while at the same time controlling the panicked populace. Harry's information was pretty sketchy, but from what he'd heard, Minister Fudge (Harry was guessing on Dumbledore's behest) had declared the entire country to be under Martial Law, complete with military checkpoints, mandatory identification cards- the whole she-bang.

Harry was glad he was well out of it. Frankly, it sounded rather far up on the suck-age scale. Unfortunately, the Minister still needed him- something about a prophecy, or some such rot- and Harry's polite (or not-so-polite, as it were) refusals weren't having much affect. Hence the reason he was still constantly moving, even after four years on the run. (Well, that and the whole cat thing. But honestly, Harry would have settled down in some convenient forest to become a hermit by now if that were the only issue.) Somehow, the Unspeakables were using his magic to track him all across the world. If he refrained from using it, it usually took the Department of Mysteries upwards of week to get a fix on him, but it made staying in any one place for longer than that problematic.

Apparently, he'd overstayed his welcome this time. Damn.

The cat-boy rolled silently to his feet in the alcove, careful not to let any part of himself become visible. Hopefully the Aurors were just here on some sort of routine business and would pass by without noticing him, but Harry rather doubted that. Aside from the fact that the Auror Corps had no reason to be here outside of searching him, in Harry's experience, fate was a bitch with a vendetta, and boy could she hold a grudge.

O0o0o0o0o00oo0

Logan heard the whispers well before the people in question resolved themselves into definite figures.

"Are you sure the researchers said he would be here? It doesn't really seem like the kind of place the destined savior of our world would hang out in."

On surprisingly soft feet, Logan padded through the shadows towards the speaker. He wasn't sure what the man was talking about, but words like 'destined savior of the world' were _definitely_ on his list of phrases to pay attention to.

"Merlin, Finchley, don't you ever listen at briefings? Our 'beloved savior' has been on the run for the last _four years._ I doubt he's been living it up at the Hilton all this time."

The voices were distinctly British sounding; Logan wondered absently as he crept closer what on earth a couple of British dudes were doing in Canada.

The two men were standing- more like lurking- at the mouth of yet a smaller alleyway, the murky gloom of the night around them disrupted by a circle of soft amber light that extended for several feet in all directions. Logan, crouched behind a handy dumpster, squinted his eyes against the glare. He'd grown accustomed to the dimness, his pupils expanding to catch all available light, and the sudden change was disorienting.

"I know that, Herrickson," the first speaker- Finchley, was it?- whined, "but this is just too much; it's creepy and wet and there is _no one _here. Why can't we just meet up with McCauley and Jeffrys and call it a night?"

Herrickson slapped Finchley upside the head. "Because, dimwit, the Unspeakables _said_ he would be here, and they don't make mistakes. So quit your whinging!"

The complainer grumbled. "I don't see why we need 'im so bad anyways. He's just a kid—how's he supposed to defeat the Dark Lord?"

Herrickson let out an explosive sigh. "You got me there, Finchley. That sort of thing's above my pay-grade. But I can tell you this—whatever it is that's going over here, it's ruffling some feathers among the higher ups. I reckon something big's about to go down in the Colonies, something that could make or break this war for us. And whatever it is, they need Potter for it. _That's _why the Minister's stepped up the search for him, not this whole 'for his own protection' spiel they're selling the media."

Logan was officially confused. These guys were talking about wars and Dark Lords and child saviors? "Messed up shit happens in Britain," Logan muttered to himself, "Messed. Up. Shit."

"I don't know, mate. The commander never tells us anything anymore. I mean, do we even know why Potter ran off four years ago? Cuz last I heard, he was like thirteen when it happened and the most normal, well adjusted kid you could hope for. What made him take off like that, d'you think?"

Herrickson sighed, clapped the other man on the back. Logan gave up on understanding anything the two were saying. "I got no idea, Georgie. No idea. Tell you what- why don't you go get us a couple of sandwiches. Whatever made him take off like that, I doubt Potter'll be running out of that alleyway any time soon. It's like two in the morning; nothing gonna happen for at least four hours."

The other man, Finchley, laughed and started walking away from his friend –partner? Logan crouched down lower and stilled his breathing as the man walked right past his hiding place. But Finchley hardly even paused as he strode past the dumpster, mind clearly more on getting some food than on his surroundings. Logan watched his back fade into the gloom, still completely mystified as to what the hell had just happened.

O0o00o0oo00oo0o0o0oo0o0

Oh yeah. Fate was definitely a bitch.

Harry cursed, scrambling his feet underneath him and taking off down the narrow street like a cat out of hell. Rather an apt description, come to think of it.

"Damnit, get back here!" the Auror called after him. The red beam of a stunner splashed off the pavement inches from his foot, and Harry picked up the pace.

"Can't catch me!" he taunted, "You run like a girl!"

Maybe not the best idea to antagonize the man chasing you, but Harry had always had a problem with mouthing off under pressure. His pursuer growled angrily, his heavy footsteps quickening.

Yeah, definitely not the best idea. Harry wasn't too worried, though. So long as one of those spells didn't hit him, he figured he could outrun this goon no problem. Most wizards were total slackers; with the advantages magic gave them, not many bothered with physical training. Their magic kept them relatively healthy, eliminating obesity and such, but not even magic could mimic the results of a good workout. Already, the Auror was panting heavily, his gasps echoing loudly in Harry's triangle ears.

The mutant giggled breathlessly as the end of the alleyway neared. Just another few feet, and then he could lost this bugger in the maze of twisting walls. Ten feet… five feet… two… one…

Less than a foot away from his goal, a giant black silhouette stepped right into Harry's pathway. Already careening at a frantic pace, Harry stumbled, unable to stop, and with the angry shouts of the rookie Auror ringing in his ears, the mutant ran full tilt into a firm, muscled chest.


	5. Chapter 5

DISCLAIMER: H o l o - G r a m m a t i c is sad to inform you that they own neither Harry Potter or the X-men franchise. They belong to their respective creators, producers, and publishers, none of which have any relation to H o l o – G r a m m a t i c.

Warning: This story contains shonen-ai - slash - m/m; whatever you want to call it. The probability of Lemons is minimal, however: if relationships involving two males bother you, H o l o – G r a m m a t i c asks that you kindly vacate the premises.

Thank-you.

Title: Hobo's Lullaby

Pairing: Logan/Wolverine/Harry

Rating: PG-13 / R

Summary: When an embittered Harry Potter and a pre-X-Men Logan Howlett meet by chance on a train, it marks the start of one of the oddest partnerships this world has ever seen.

O00oo0o0o0o0o0o0

**Chapter 5: In Which There is Much Gratuitous Violence, and Very Little in the Way of Explanations(Much to Logan's Displeasure)**

**0**

**o**

**0**

**o**

Logan was growing bored with just crouching here in the shadows. The ridges of the dumpster were digging into his spine, and the stench was telling him that it had been a mighty long time since this thing had been emptied. Unfortunately for his nose, the strange Englishman was still blocking Logan's path, lurking as he was in the mouth of the next alleyway. He didn't look like he would be moving anytime soon, and Logan didn't think it would be wise to just waltz right up and push by the man. He had the air of a perimeter guard about him, though what on earth he thought to keep in- or out- was a mystery to Logan. Either way, Wolverine was fairly sure the man wouldn't take well to his arrival.

Logan glanced up at the sky, at the fat yellow moon that hung, just visible through the low hanging haze, like a shuttered lantern lighting the heavens. Much good it did Logan- its beams were weakened by rooftops and cloud cover long before they could penetrate into the sulky darkness that wreathed the maze of winding alleys that seemed to make up so much of this third rate city. But still, its sickly light provided just enough illumination for a man to see by— and Logan's eyes were far sharper than a normal human's. Judging by its position low on the horizon, it was sometime in the wee hours of the morning.

Perhaps it would be wiser to simply return to his motel room for the night. He'd been wandering around in these streets since just after eleven, only breaking to visit that bar about an hour ago. Maybe it was a good time to call it a night. As the strange watcher had said, nothing was likely to happen till the sun came up, including Kit skipping town again. He could always pick up where he'd left off in the morning. Somehow, though, Logan doubted that he'd find anything by the clear light of day. His every instinct was whispering to stay, to seek out the little bitch and exact revenge.

He wondered maybe if he and his feral side needed to have a nice, long chat about what precisely constituted appropriate means of payback; some of the images it was sending him were, frankly, disturbing.

A shout split the air, followed by mocking laughter. "Can't catch me!" a voice sang, "You run like a girl!"

The cries rang out from beyond the alley mouth, past the lurking Herrickson.

The crouching mutant was on his feet in an instant. He knew that voice, even if he'd only heard it a few times over the course of a diner meal. His mouth curled into a savage smirk.

He'd found him.

But Logan wasn't the only one who'd heard the shout. As Logan pounded past the man, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Herrickson's face, a look of surprise on his thin features. And then Logan was past him, and it wasn't just one set out shouts sounding in the night air.

"Oi! Hey you, get back here!" Logan didn't even pause, his booted feet flying over the cobbles. He turned the corner at the end of the alley, and then another and another, following the faint echoes of the shout that still lingered in the heavy air. He rounded on last bend, skidded to a halt at the opening to yet another alley-

and stumbled back as a skinny figure came flying out at him. The mutant had only a bare half second to register stringy black hair and wild beryl eyes, before the speeding body slammed into him and his breath whooshed from his lungs.

O0o0o0o0ooo0o0o0o0

Harry saw stars for a moment, tiny sparkles dancing around his vision. He fell to the ground, landing hard on his arse in a puddle of questionable liquid. He yelped. Whoever it was he'd just rammed into had the hardest abdominals he'd ever encountered- like a slab of concrete.

A large, calloused hand swooped down out of nowhere and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. Harry found himself dangling, toes just brushing the ground, and staring into a very familiar pair of whiskey coloured eyes.

"Oh, bugger," he sighed, then adopting a tone of false cheer: "Hello, Wolverine, old chum! Say, would you mind letting me down? I'm sort of in the middle of… something…" He trailed off, sagging at the un-amused look in Woverine's eyes. "No? Yeah, somehow I figured that."

A smirk graced the other mutant's lips. "Kitten," he grunted, "I see you've been busy."

Harry squirmed in his tight grip. "Yes, and at the moment, I am still rather busy, so if you could just _let go-_"

"Freeze!" yelled three voices, in near perfect unison.

"Great, just _great,_" Harry muttered. The idiot brigade had arrived, right on cue.

"I demand you- Oh, Herrickson! What are you doing here? I thought you and Finchley were watching the perimeter."

"McCauley? Taggert? What's going on? I was just chasing this miscreant here, when-"

"Alright, Wolfie," Harry whispered over the Aurors' confused comments, "here's the deal. I'll try and talk us out of this situation, and if that don't work, you can beat the crap out of these goons."

Wolverine narrowed his eyes. "Or you could tell me what the hell is going on here."

"Hmmm… lengthy explanations versus gratuitous violence- I'm thinking I like my plan better."  
"And I'm thinking that if you don't tell me what your deal is, I might just let these crazy-ass bastards get their mitts on you, so fess up."

"Ah, crap. Look, Wolfie-" Harry's sentence was cut off by the loud voice of one of the Aurors, finally done with their impromptu conference; Finchley, he thought.

"Right then, Mug- I mean, my good sir; if you will just hand over the boy, everyone can go about their business without any unpleasantness."

One of the others face-palmed. "Honestly, Finchley- could you be _any_ more obvious?" he muttered. Harry decided he rather approved of this Auror.

"Please," Harry hissed desperately into Logan's ear, "Don't let them take me- they're molesters!" He said the last part a bit louder than he might have, enjoying the indignant looks on the faces of the Aurors.

"Now see here-" one of them started, but Harry wasn't finished.

"Promise, I'll tell you whatever you want to know, just don't let them take me!"

The Aurors growled, starting to form a loose circle around the pair. Logan hesitated.

"Wolfie? Talk to me, buddy, tell me what you're-"

"Shut up, brat."

"Wha?"

Wolverine cracked his neck, depositing Harry roughly back on his feet. "I said, shut up. You're ruining the mood."

And with that, he sprang into action.

O0o0o0o0

It had been a while since Logan had been in a decent brawl. He'd kinda missed it.

He made a bee-line for the nearest cloaked weirdo, aiming for the midriff and catching the man by surprise. "What th-" was all the man had time to get out before Logan's steel reinforced fist was buried deep in his gut. He crumpled, and Logan grabbed his head, swiftly bringing his knee up to meet the man's nose. It broke with a sickening crunch, and Logan grinned.

Oh yeah- he'd missed this.

His victim collapsed whimpering to the cobbles, and Logan kicked him a few times for good measure. Just in case the man thought it was a good idea to get back up. Then he turned, grinning savagely, to the remaining two.

That had been far too easy.

The Aurors' eyes were wide with shock. Clearly they hadn't been expecting him to take out their companion in ten seconds flat. But they quickly recovered, hands plunging deep into robes to draw out—sticks? What good was that supposed to do them?

The two men were holding them like weapons, pointed directly at his skull. "S-stand down, Muggle; we don't want to hurt you."

Logan spared a brief glance behind him; the kid had climbed onto a low-hanging fire escape and was watching eagerly from there. Logan tipped his head towards the sticks. '_weapons?'_ he mouthed. Kit nodded, and mimed shooting something. _'think lasers,' _he mouthed back, and Logan raised an eyebrow.

"This explanation of yours better be good," he growled, and turned back to his opponents.

And not a moment to soon. Logan saw the red beam seconds before it came into contact with his head, and twisted out of the way, hissing when he saw the light careen into the pavement and blow a scorching hole in the ground.

Definitely avoiding those, then, even if he was virtually invincible.

Not giving the enemy time to fire off another shot, Logan threw himself at the taller of the two, getting in low and underneath his (fairly pathetic anyway) guard. He was taking a chance here, relying on his proximity to the man to keep the other one from shooting, but when no laser bolts were forthcoming, Logan grinned. The man went down like a stone; Logan rolled off him. He dodged a wild swing of the downed man's fist, retaliating with a much more controlled one of his own to his temple. The man's movements stilled instantly- he was down for the count.

The kid crowed from his lofty vantage point. "Holy shit, that was awesome!"

"Glad you think so. Now shut up an' stop—ng!" Logan ducked, the third man's fist whistling as it sped inches above his skull. "Distracting me!" he finished, aiming a kick at the man's kneecap. The other dodged it with rather more skill than his companions had shown, and backed off warily. He stopped about five yards away from the mutant, his stick-thing once again in his hand, though this time it was pointed towards the ground. Logan allowed the man to catch his breath, but kept his guard up; he, unlike these laser-toting amateurs, knew better than to think something was over till all his opponents were laid out groaning on the ground.

"Listen, buddy," the Auror started, "I don't know who you are- I don't even really care- but that there is our savior, and he's coming with me, one way or the other."

"Oi! I ain't _nobody's _savior, y'arsehole! If Voldie's such a threat, why don't you fuckers take care of him yourselves, instead of leavin' the job to a freakin' _thirteen year-old_!"

The last standing Auror snarled at the boy. "You were our only hope, dammit! Listen, Potter, I don't know what your problem is, but taking off like you did? That's just cowardly!"

"You're damn right it was cowardly!" Kit screamed, "And what did you expect? I was just a kid, and then you all come waltzing into my life and tell me I have to _waste_ _some dude_ and save the world! You ever hear of a little thing called _HELL NO? _Of course I'm gonna take off, you idiot!"

"What have we ever done to you that you'd just leave us to die like this?" the man screamed back, a mixture of fury and desperation in his body language, "What did we ever do to you?"

"_EVERYTHING, GODDAMNIT!_"

0oo0o0o0

Harry screamed his fury at the Auror. How dare he presume to know _anything_ about him? The man was a total stranger- he knew nothing of what Harry had done and seen; what had been done to him.

Harry snarled, pushing away the unwelcome, distracting thoughts. That was over and done with- he'd left it all behind with everything else in England.

The ex-wizard glared hotly at the man guilty of dredging up these long buried memories. How_ dare_ he criticize things he knew nothing about? But then, that was the whole problem with celebrity. Everyone knows _about_ you- they just don't know _you._

Harry took a shuddering breath. His face was flushed, he knew, and he was panting hard. The other man wasn't much better- face crimson, eyes over-bright—they shone in the dim light with something suspiciously like tears.

Harry spun away, slamming his fist into the wall. _Goddamn it. Damn, damn, damn._

"Kid?" Wolverine asked hesitantly, "Uh… d'you still want me to beat the shit out of this guy, or are we having big emotional revelations now?"

"Forget it," he muttered hoarsely, "Just forget it. Kick his ass, whatever. I'm outta here."

He ran his hands violently through his hair, yanking savagely on the ends. " 'm outta here…"

"Like hell you are!" the Auror yelled. His wand hand shot up, a spell on his lips and determination in his eyes. But he was too slow. Wolverine lunged for him, grabbing his wand arm and yanking it down and away. The man whimpered as the mutant's savage grip fractured the bones in his wrist. He cursed, yanked himself partly out of Logan's hold, and fired off a spell at the mutant, the pidgin Latin spilling malevolently from his lips. Wolverine ducked the sickly orange beam and it went wide. He spun, booted heel lashing out. The hard sole made contact with the Auror's kneecap, and with a sound like snapping wood, the bone shattered. He went down, screaming in pain. His shrieks were high and shrill, the piercing notes echoing and resounding in the narrow space.

Logan bared his teeth, then crouched and, with utmost delicacy, slammed the back of the man's head against the cracked pavement. His sounds of agony cut off abruptly.

The mutant stepped back and surveyed his handiwork: three grown men, laid out on the ground; one whimpering, two knocked out. Not bad; and it had only taken him about five, ten minutes.

Taking pity on his still whimpering first victim, he swiftly and efficiently sent the man to join his friends in dreamland.

The alleyway grew silent now that no one was moaning or screaming in pain, and the lack of sound weighed oppressively on Logan. He twisted his neck- left, right- and rolled his shoulders. He hadn't even needed to use the Claws.

"So, brat," he quipped, "ya gonna give me that explanation now?"

He turned to the kid, who was awkwardly clambering down from the fire escape. "I'd rather we do a repeat performance of last time," the boy said, ears pressed flat against his skull, "you know- where you buy me some food and I scam you. I thought was a pretty stellar arrangement, myself. Didn't- ah- didn't you?" His words were completely relaxed, as if he was at a ladies church tea party instead of having just watched Logan beat three men bloody. His ears, pinned tightly down, and the way his arm fur was doing a very good impression of a puff-ball, however, gave him away.

"No," intoned Logan bluntly, "Not really. Now start talking."

Kit shook his head, looking pained; Logan noted he looked rather pale. "Honestly, brat, I'm waiting."

"You wouldn't believe it anyway," Kit muttered petulantly, and Logan frowned.

"Says the Cat-boy to a man with metal claws grafted onto his skeleton. Listen kiddo, there ain't nothing that surprises me anymore. So what are you so worried about?"

Kit drew into himself, arms wrapping around his ribs and shoulders hunched. "I don't feel so good," he gritted out between clenched teeth.

Logan sighed. "I'm not that stupid, Brat," he growled, and grabbed the boy's arm. "Now, you gonna make me- Kid? What the hell?"

Kit had gone white as a sheet, his thin, wiry frame trembling in Logan's grasp. His skin was cold and clammy under the slight, near invisible coat of downy fur that apparently spread over his whole body.

Logan pulled his hand back, weird-ed out. He hadn't grabbed the kid too hard, he was sure- he'd been careful. So what on earth-

And then he caught the scent of blood in the air- fresh, feline scented blood- and saw the small, but growing, puddle at the boy's feet.

"Shit," he breathed, "Brat, what happened?"

Kit shrugged painfully. "Severing spell," he said faintly; "You dodged- I didn't."

"Fuck," Logan swore, "Why didn't you say something sooner!"

The dark haired mutant tugged weakly out of Logan's grip, "'M fine, really," he insisted, "just a bit dizzy."

Logan snorted, "I already told ya, I ain't stupid. You need a hospital."

"_No!_" Harry almost shouted, "I don't-" He winced as a flash of pain shot through his side. "No hospitals," he told Wolverine, a bit more calmly. His pupils, not quite slit like a cat's but not quite circular either, widened till they nearly blotted out the green of his irises, mocking Logan. Of course he couldn't go to a hospital- for the same reason Logan himself could never go to a hospital; well, if the need had ever arose, that is. He would be turned away the moment the staff realized he wasn't human- and that was if he was lucky. Logan had heard rumors of doctors 'accidentally' giving mutants the wrong drugs, or _too much_ drugs.

"Okay," he muttered, "right. No hospitals. Eh- right."

Plan B then. He yanked a cloth from his pocket; it had at one point been a handkerchief, he thought, but he wasn't entirely sure. The initials JLH were embroidered on the corner. Quickly squinting at it, he shrugged. It wasn't exactly a sterile bandage, but it would have to do. He swiftly ran his hands over Kit's side, muttering a gruff apology as the boy flinched violently and made a strangled sound in his throat. His large, callused fingers swiftly mapped out the boy's wound, and he swore. The gash was located on the back of his ribs, cutting from the bottom of his shoulder blade down and around to end at the peak of his hip; it was relatively shallow, but the length of the slash was daunting. One thing for sure, his little handkerchief wouldn't do much good. He pressed it to the brat's side anyway, hoping to slow at least some of the bleeding. It wasn't gushing, thank God, but a steady flow of blood was staining the pale fabric a bright crimson; it looked brown in the faulty light, but the hard bite of iron and salt that filled his nose made it entirely too clear what it was. He was going to have to stitch it.

"Come on," he muttered, "let's get you patched up."

Logan dragged the kid's uninjured arm over his shoulder and together the two of them stumbled back through the twisting labyrinth of alleys and cul-de-sacs, back onto the main streets. They must have looked an odd pair, traversing the sidewalks in a strange, stilted three-legged walk, the tiny waif basically hanging off the much older, much larger man. But Logan had no time to worry about that.

Kit suddenly swayed, and crumpled, boneless, to the ground. Logan only just caught him before he came into contact with the refuse littered concrete.

"Come on, brat," he grunted, heaving the mutant to his feet, "don't pass out on me now."

They were so close- it was less than a block to his motel-room, where he could stitch the kid up. Kit didn't stir. Logan gritted his teeth.

The kid wasn't really all that heavy, he noted, as he lifted the limp body into his arms as gently as possible. Cradling the boy's head against his chest, he started to run.

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Logan tore through the medicine cabinet, then abandoning that possibility, yanked out his beaten duffel bag and tore it open. "Come on, come on," he muttered frantically, "where are you?"

At last, near the very bottom of the bag, he found what he was looking for. With a triumphant cry, he extracted the small pouch from among its contents and shoved the rest onto the floor. Carefully, he laid Kit's unmoving body down onto the motel sheets, belatedly wishing that he had something a little more sanitary. Keeping pressure on what part of the gash he could with his left hand, Logan ripped open the pouch with his teeth and snatched up the pale, ivory needle that fell out, and the un-dyed thread. He'd never used them for anything other than the occasional emergency patch on his clothing, but somehow, his hands knew what to do. Without conscious thought from him, they slipped the end of the thread through the narrow eye, and then, stabbing the needle once into his own flesh to check that it was sharp, they plunged the point into the boy's skin and began, stitch by stitch, to draw the ragged edges of his flesh back together.


	6. Chapter 6

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DISCLAIMER: H o l o - G r a m m a t i c is sad to inform you that they own neither Harry Potter or the X-men franchise. They belong to their respective creators, producers, and publishers, none of which have any relation to H o l o – G r a m m a t i c.

Warning: This story contains shonen-ai - slash - m/m; whatever you want to call it. The probability of Lemons is minimal, however: if relationships involving two males bother you, H o l o – G r a m m a t i c asks that you kindly vacate the premises.

Thank-you.

Title: Hobo's Lullaby

Pairing: Logan/Wolverine/Harry

Rating: PG-13 / R

Summary: When an embittered Harry Potter and a pre-X-Men Logan Howlett meet by chance on a train, it marks the start of one of the oddest partnerships this world has ever seen.

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**Note: this is not a chapter we're particularly fond of. It's too short, and too filler-y. but hey, que sera sera, right? We've tried countless times to make this suck less, and this is about as good as it's gonna get. So there you go. **

**Chapter 6: In Which Logan Still Doesn't Get That Explanation, But Comes Damn Close. **

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Harry woke up with a pounding headache, and a distinct sense of deja'vu. "Why is it," he stated blandly, "that whenever you save my life, I wake up feeling like you performed brain surgery on me on my sleep?"

A chuckle sounded from somewhere above his head. "I see your sense of humor survived your brush with death," Wolverine said dryly. Harry groaned and tried to sit up. He hurt everywhere. Logan's hands swooped in and caught him, tugging the quilt down before helping him up.

"Here," he grunted, thrusting a small paper cup at Harry. "You've been out for almost two days; your throat's probably feeling like the Sahara Desert around now."

Harry greedily snatched the water, guzzling it down. When it was gone, he stared forlornly at the soggy bottom of the cup. Logan shook his head. "Sorry kiddo. If you drink too much too fast you'll get sick, and then you'd be laid up in my bed for another two days."

Harry stuck his tongue out at the man. "What are you, my mother?"

He suddenly noticed a slight breeze around his—ah, intimates, shall we say. The cat-boy squeaked, and grabbed the sheets, yanking them up to his chin. "Forget mother, why am I naked?" he yelped, blood rushing to his face. Wolverine had seen him naked? Crap, and he hadn't even been awake for it! Though on second thought, that was probably a good thing.

Wolverine looked uncomfortable. "I, ehe, that is-"

"Are you a molester? Oh my god, I knew it! Help! Help! Moles- mmph!" Harry suppressed a snicker, and glared impishly at Logan over the hand that was slapped on top of his mouth.

"You had a slice on your thigh as well as the one on your side, okay?" he hissed, "I couldn't look at it with your pants on! Now shut it- you're gonna get me kicked out!"

Harry grinned against the man's skin, and poked his tongue through his lips, mashing it against the offending palm. Wolverine grimaced, and yanked his hand away. "I don't know why I bothered," he grumped. Harry smirked.

"I bet you _looked _at more than just my cut. See anything you like down there?" he purred in his best bedroom voice. The older man rolled his eyes, unmoved.

"You've no need to worry," he bit out, "Your modesty is intact, O blushing virgin."

Harry pouted. "It better be," he muttered, "and I'm not a virgin."

Logan twitched, but chose to ignore the second part of Harry's statement. He plucked the cup from Harry's fingers, stating, "If you can make gay innuendoes already, you're probably good for some more water."

Harry watched his back retreat out the door, and smirked at the sight of his ears, tinged ever so slightly pink. Wolverine seemed to be as straight as they come, but Harry had high hopes for him. He was never one to back down from a challenge.

With Logan out of sight, Harry carefully lifted the covers from his body and peeked underneath the bandaged wrapped around his torso. The sight of his livid flesh, pierced through with bloodstained thread at even intervals had him jerking his head back up rather quickly. He was no stranger to injury- he had been in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts often enough that Madam Pomfrey had reserved him a permanent bed there, and before Hogwarts… well. In any case, it wasn't the sight of his own blood that bothered him, more the realization that without Wolverine he'd (once again) have died. The wound wasn't too deep, but without the stitches the man had given him, he would likely have bled out.

"Damn," he muttered, "that's twice now. If he were a wizard, I'd be so screwed."

"If I were a what?"

Harry jerked the covers down spastically as the older mutant re-emerged from the kitchenette. "Nothing," he sang, not caring that even a three year old would be able to tell that he was lying.

Life debts were tricky things in the Wizarding world. Let the wrong person save your life, and they could force you into doing practically anything as payment of that debt- up to and including murder. Of course, it was technically illegal to force another wizard into doing anything that could be harmful to them, but legality hardly entered into it. Magic herself would guarantee that the debt be repaid, one way or another- and Magic, ancient and brutal as the days when she had first been called upon by humans, did not answer to modern laws.

But, Harry reflected, Logan really had no way of knowing that, and without the proper rituals and chants there was no way the Wolverine could invoke Harry's debt. So he was safe.

Logan eyed him suspiciously, but allowed the lie to pass.

"So how did you find me, anyway?" Harry questioned hastily, "I wasn't exactly advertising my whereabouts, you know."

Logan smirked. "Maybe not, but you forget, I have methods not available to most people." At Harry's confused look, he smirked wider and tapped his nose. "You smell kinda like cinnamon, did you know?"

Harry groaned. Of course. Mutant senses- he should have taken that into account. "Well—you smell like sex and booze," he griped, wrinkling his own nose.

Logan looked affronted. "No need to be insulting," he complained, "I was just saying."

Harry laughed lightly, wincing as the motion pulled at his stitches. Wolverine caught the wince, and frowned.

"I'm gonna need to take a look at those," he said, gesturing for Harry to sit up and turn his back to him. "You were bleeding so much, I didn't want to waste time on perfection, but now that you're in no immediate danger, I'd like to check them over, maybe re-do them."

Harry nodded. "Sounds good," he conceded, "but first, I'm gonna need some pants."

Logan blushed. Oh, it was only a very slight pinking of his cheeks, but Harry saw it, clear as day. Apparently, the mutant wasn't as nonchalant about having naked boys in his bed as he tried to appear.

And thank God for that, Harry reflected; if he _had_ been, Harry might have had to rethink his designs for the man.

"Right," Logan stuttered, "Uhh, just a sec." He dug through his bag for a moment, and that a pair of jeans landed on Harry's lap. "Your own pants were soaked in blood, so I threw 'em in the tub to soak for a bit."

"What, for two days?" Harry said incredulously, raising an eyebrow, "that seems a bit extreme."

"There was a lot of blood."

Harry glared at Logan, and gestured for him to turn around. "That was my last pair of pants," he told the mutant's back as he slipped into the jeans, "so you better not have ruined them."

Logan turned back to him once Harry was decent, and half smiled at the image the boy cut. His jeans were far too big on him, a good six inches too large around the waist, and at least that much too long. The kid's glare encouraged him to keep any comments to himself. Logan grabbed the needle and thread from the bedside table and climbed onto the bed nest to the cat-like mutant. "Hold still as much as you can," he instructed quietly, "This will probably hurt, but if you squirm it'll just make it worse."

He gently began to unwind the bandaging from around Harry's ribs and torso, a look of intense concentration on his face.

Harry shivered at the feel of the mutant's rough palms ghosting over his flesh, frantically pushing down a blush. This means nothing, he told himself; just a sort-of-friend stitching another sort-of-friend up. No reason for his heart to be racing, or his blood pounding in his ears, none at all.

"So, kid," Logan murmured as he carefully picked apart the first stitch, "You gonna give me that explanation now? I've been waiting on one for three days. Let's hear it."

The body under his hands flinched, though whether at his words or the tugging of thread through his skin, Logan didn't know.

"My name is Fredrick," the cat-eared teen told him blithely, "Those people were from the Russian Mafia; they're after me because I owe them a lot of money, you see—"

"Kid." Logan stopped him not even ten seconds in. "I'm asking for the truth."

Harry sighed. It had been worth a try. "Why must you be so difficult?" he lamented, "You don't _really _want the truth- you just think you do, because you don't _know _the truth. Really, you're much better off not knowing."

Logan shook his head, turning his attention back to the boy's side for the moment. He snipped the thread on a particularly sloppy looking stitch, slowly easing the bloodstained fiber out of the torn skin. "Will you at least tell me your real name?" he asked, adding "mine's Logan- Wolverine is just my mutant name."

'Kit' sighed. "It's Harry," he said reluctantly. "Harry Potter."

Logan nodded, glad at last to have a name to put to the kid that didn't feel so fake. Harry. It fit him, in a weird, confusing sort of way. The teen himself was so unusual, it seemed fitting that his name would be as common as dirt.

"Well, Harry Potter," he said firmly, looking up from his work to stare Harry in the eye's, "Here's the way I see it. You owe your life- twice, in fact. So I'm hereby invoking that debt—right now." He paused, meaning to end it there, but something forced him to go on, guiding his words into the correct shape to get an explanation out of this reticent kid. "By star-shine and lamp-glow, by sun-fire and moon-light, before all gods and Magic herself, I command you to tell me, truthfully and in its entirety, your story, in payment for the life you owe. With the Lady as my witness, so mote it be."

He broke off, a strange tingling running over his lips and tongue.

What. The. Hell.

Harry was staring at him, eyes so wide as to spring right from their sockets, mouth agape.

"Holy shit," the boy breathed; "Holy. Fucking. _Shit!_ There's no way- how did you know that?" Harry yelled, jerking away from Logan's hands, still resting lightly on his side.

"Whoah, calm down," Logan yelped, only just avoiding painfully yanking out the stitch he had been working on. "How did I know what?"

"That- that invocation! There's no way you could know that!"

"Look kiddo" Logan growled, "I don't know anything about any incantations. It just seemed- I don't know, _right. _Like it was the right thing to say. And I think I just out-gayed myself" he added to himself. He was never going to live this down.

Harry gaped at Logan. There as no logical way that the mutant could have known the exact ritual words to invoke a life debt. _No. Way._ Not unless…

"Oh Merlin," he whimpered, "are you one of us? Please tell me you are _not_ one of us."

Logan looked at him, confused. "Tell me, damnit!" Harry shouted. Logan said nothing.

"Oh my god, you _are, _aren't you! You son of a bitch!" Harry screamed. He jumped to his feet, not caring that he was trailing bloody bandages everywhere. "You knew the whole time, didn't you? You knew who I was! you were just laughing at me- oh, look at the poor Golden Boy, how far he's fallen! Well you know what? Screw you! Screw you to hell, you fucking—_mmph_!"

Harry screamed through the hand clapped over his mouth, yet again. This time there was no joking tease in his eyes, no playful sparkle. Logan had tricked him- he was a wizard, there was no other explanation! And if he was a wizard, then there was no way he wouldn't have recognized Harry, even all cat-ified as he was. He was still too recognizable to miss- every man, woman, and child in the Wizarding World knew his name and face.

The revelation of Logan's true nature hurt more than he thought it would. True, he didn't know the man all that well- hell, he hadn't even know his real name till a few minutes ago- but the sting of betrayal was sharp all the same.

"Stop! Brat, calm down! Look, I have no idea what's going on, but I'm not screwing you over! Calm d- ow! Don't bite me, dammit! Little savage!"

Logan shook the struggling body in frustration. Harry's head snapped limply to the side, like a doll's. Logan didn't shake him again. Instead he sighed, and grabbed Harry's hands as they flew at his face, restraining them in case of future blows.

He didn't know what had set the kid off, but he had no interest in being clawed by a pissed of Cat-boy, and even less in allowing Harry to storm off in a ill-conceived huff.

At last, Harry's angry squeals and blows slowed, then ceased altogether. "Are you going to behave now?" he asked carefully. Harry slowly nodded, and Logan removed his hands, allowing the younger man to wrench himself from his grasp and throw himself on the bed.

"Look, kid-" Logan started, then growled in frustration. Harry had his head under the covers, hands over his ears in a very clear 'I'm-not-listening-to-you' pose.

"Harry," he said, louder, "I don't know what you think I am, but I'm not. I have no idea why I said what I said, if that's what set you off. It was like- like something was guiding me, telling me what to say. I don't know how to explain it any more than you do."

Harry shook his sheet-adorned head. "I swear," Logan repeated, "I'm not screwing with you. Can you smell a lie on me?" he asked, the thought suddenly striking him. there was a long, tense silence. Slowly, the dark haired head poked out from under the heaped bedding, and the small pointed nose twitched. "Oops?" a small voice whispered. A sigh heaved through Harry's body, and he tossed the covers away, climbing out of his little nest to perch cross-legged on the edge of the mattress. He still looked wary of Logan, but at least he wasn't screaming at him anymore.

The two stared awkwardly at each other for a moment. "Sorry," Harry said abruptly, "I kinda jumped the gun there."

Logan had to resist making a biting comment there, but he somehow didn't think that would be very helpful in this situation. "You mind telling me what that was about?" he asked carefully.

"I've heard those words before, is all," Harry muttered, not looking him in the eye. "I wasn't expecting it."  
"Oh." That didn't really tell Logan anything.

Harry sighed. "When you were stitching me up, did you happen to bleed on me?" he inquired softly. "That's the only thing I can think to explain it."

Logan didn't see how that could, but thought back anyway. "I, uh, I stuck myself with the needle to check if it was sharp; there might have been some blood on it, I guess."

Harry nodded, "Yeah, that would do it. Fuck."

It made sense. An exchange of blood was one of the more vital parts of the Life-debt ritual- it was entirely possible that by accidentally getting his blood in Harry, Logan had kick-started the process. And then when he'd proclaimed that Harry owed him his life- well, that was three-quarters of the ritual right there. Magic had just supplied the right words and bada-bing, bada-boom- now he had no choice but to tell Logan the truth.

"Oi," he sighed, "This _would _happen to me. Fine." He glared at Logan, though it wasn't really the mutant's fault. "You better sit down," he grumbled, "This could take a while. What do you know… about wizards?"

**and that's that. Reviews make us feel better (hint hint, XD)**


	7. Chapter 7

DISCLAIMER: H o l o - G r a m m a t i c is sad to inform you that they own neither Harry Potter or the X-men franchise. They belong to their respective creators, producers, and publishers, none of which have any relation to H o l o – G r a m m a t i c.

* * *

Warning: This story contains shonen-ai - slash - m/m; whatever you want to call it. The probability of Lemons is minimal, however: if relationships involving two males bother you, H o l o – G r a m m a t i c asks that you kindly vacate the premises.

Thank-you.

* * *

Title: Hobo's Lullaby

Pairing: Logan/Wolverine/Harry

Rating: PG-13 / R

Summary: When an embittered Harry Potter and a pre-X-Men Logan Howlett meet by chance on a train, it marks the start of one of the oddest partnerships this world has ever seen.

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**Chapter Seven: In Which the Truth Comes Out (but Logan, Regrettably, Remains in the Closet)**

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Logan blinked. And blinked again. and rubbed his palm over his face, a groan escaping his lips.

"Okay," he said, "Time out. Lemme see if I've got this straight. You're a wizard."

"Yep."

"With… with wands and broomsticks and stuff?"

"Yep. Well, _I _don't have a broomstick _or _a wand right now, kinda left 'em behind, but yeah, most of us have them."

"Right. And this…Voldy-whatsis guy-"

"Voldemort."

"Right. He's evil?"

"Very."

"Okay. He tried to kill you- do you happen to know why, by any chance?"

Harry shrugged and made a face. "Dumbledore was never very forthcoming on that. Something about my being the only one who could ever defeat him. He kept saying he'd tell me when I was older, but, well… you know how that turned out."

Logan considered that. "That kinda sucks, kiddo.

"Yep," Harry chirped, popping the 'p' at the end, "story of my life. Literally, actually… huh."

Logan nodded, absorbing the information he'd been given so far. It didn't make a lick of sense, of course, but somehow- well, he believed it. The look in Harry's eyes when he was speaking about this Voldemort- that kind of hate couldn't be faked.

"So, this Dumbledore person- he was your headmaster. And he- what, tried to kill you?"

Harry winced. "Something like that."

The brunette bowed his head, wincing as painful memories made themselves known. He tried not to think about that day; tried not to think about anything involving the Wizarding world, quite honestly, but this whole thing- first the Aurors, and then Logan somehow invoking the life-debt- well. It dredged up things that he'd rather not be remembered.

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_When Harry came to, it was to bright lights and soft sheets, and the cold kiss of steel against his skin. He moaned, for a moment unmindful of the events of last night. And then he tried to roll over, and his wrists gave against the hard cylinders of metal closed around them, and everything came rushing back._

_**Blood. Pain. His uncle's bulging eyes glazing over as the life left his mangled body.**_

_Harry gagged, and threw up._

_He'd killed them; maybe all of them, he didn't remember. He did, however, remember, quite clearly, the feeling of his uncle's fat cheeks rending under his nails, and the salty metallic taste as his hot blood flooded Harry's throat. He remembered that now, in vivid, techni-color detail. He immediately wished that he hadn't. His stomach rebelled violently, expelling its contents and then continuing to dry-retch once there was no more to come up. There wasn't really that much in there- it was well into the home-stretch of summer break, and it had been weeks since his stomach had had anything substantial in it._

"_I see you're up, Harry," a soft voice said, and a pair of blue, piercing eyes swam into view, followed closely by the remainder of the headmaster._

"_Headmaster Dumbledore," Harry gasped, sitting up. The cuffs on his wrists chaffed, and he winced. "I- why am I chained? Am I a prisoner?"_

_He wasn't sure what exactly the headmaster knew and what was still a mystery, and so long as he had a chance of getting out of this, he was playing the innocent card. He did feel sort of bad for lying, of course, but… well. Harry had no intention of going to Azkaban, especially not on his Uncle's account._

_The headmaster sighed sadly. "I'm afraid so, m'dear. There are… questions… about the deaths of your relatives, Harry. The minister insisted upon keeping you contained, especially in light of your… well…" he trailed off, a strange look replacing his usual twinkle._

"_In light of my what?" Harry demanded sharply. What was Dumbledore talking about? "Headmaster, if this is about all the blood, I can explain! It was- it was everywhere, Professor, and I slipped and fell in it, you see-"_

_Dumbledore held up a hand, cutting off the flow of words (lies, all of them) that spewed from the fourteen year-old's lips. "I'm afraid that is not the case, though it was somewhat troubling. No, Harry, perhaps it is best if you see for yourself."_

_Harry didn't understand. The old man conjured a small hand mirror (Rose patterned, he noted inanely. Dumbledore had odd tastes.) and held it out to him._

"_Headmaster?"_

"_Look in the glass, Harry. See what you have become."_

_Slowly, stomach feeling like someone had inserted a cannonball through his navel and let it fall, Harry turned his gaze to the silvered, reflective surface of the looking-glass._

_A face looked back at him, but it certainly wasn't his own. For sure, his face did not hold this strange, feral cast. His cheekbones were not so sharp, nor so high. His lips were fuller than this strange person's thin, razor blade mouth, his eyes wider, brighter- less slanted and angular. But the most marked difference between his own face and the stranger in the mirror was the small, black triangles situated on the top of his skull; two twitching, furred appendages that swiveled and flicked independently of any thought of his own._

"_Professor," he said slowly, the sensation of dread building, "I don't understand."_

_But he did. He recalled the terrible pain that had ruled his last moments, the bloodlust that had overtaken him. _

_Harry understood all to well what had happened._

_Dumbledore sighed, and slipped his spectacles from his nose, polishing them on the corner of his sleeve. "You are no longer human, Harry."_

"_Gee, thanks Professor, I never would have guessed that!" Harry snarled. Dumbledore looked taken aback. "As a non-human, suspicion for the Dursleys' murder automatically falls on you," he said seriously._

"_What?" Harry gasped, outraged. True, he did kill them, but it seemed a bit biased that just because he was some sort of cat-boy… thing… _

"_What are you guys, species-ist or something? Oh sure, let's blame the cat-person. Why the hell am I a cat person?"_

_Why the hell was he talking this way? Sure, he was used to having thoughts like these, despite his best efforts to stop them, but Harry had gotten very adept over the years at quashing his more rebellious thought. So why now couldn't he seen to hold his tongue?_

_Dumbledore frowned at him. "This is a very serious matter, Harry. Even if you are not convicted, your new… ah, look-"_

"_You mean my new pointy ears and silky tail and fine sharp teeth? Yeah, that's a new look, alright. Practically a makeover."_

"_It poses some serious complications for us, m'boy," Dumbledore continued, shooting Harry a wounded look. Harry resisted the urge to gag. "We will, of course, do our best to salvage the situation, but if transfiguration cannot be removed, it might become necessary to… well."_

_Harry didn't like the sound of that. Not one bit._

"_Have you any idea how it was done, Harry?" Dumbledore inquired urgently. "Did someone do this to you, or was it of a more spontaneous nature?"_

_Harry shrugged. He was screwed either way, so why not drop the old man a line. "No one did anything to me," he said, "No one's even talked to me since the beginning of the summer, aside from a couple of letters. It just… happened."_

_The headmaster sighed. "Then there's nothing for it. I had hoped that it was simply a tranfiguration gone wrong- much like young Hermione's Polyjuice mishap two years ago- but it seem that even in death, the Potters shall have the last laugh. Very well, Harry," he said, climbing wearily to his feet and blinking down at the boy. "Poppy?"_

_A grey haired head peeked around the corner of the infirmary office door. "Yes, Albus?" "Fetch Severus, will you, my dear?"_

"_But Albus-"_

"_Poppy. I really must insist."_

_Madame Pomfrey squeaked a reluctant, "Very well," and fled the scene very fast. Her tiny, no-nonsense heels clicked a rapid tattoo on the stone floor. Harry turned his head to follow her out, his ears swiveling of their own accord to focus in on her. She was breathing too fast to be normal, Harry noted. The quick little in-out-in-out whooshing of the air in her lungs was too shallow, too panicked. Something was up._

_Minutes dragged by, Harry lying silent and confused, Dumbledore looking anywhere but at him. And then the Infirmary Keeper was back, an exceptionally cranky looking Snape slinking along behind her._

"_Headmaster," he murmured silkily, "I believe I have told you how sensitive the potion I am working on is, am I correct?"_

_He flicked a brief contemptuous glance at Harry, but seemed content to ignore him for now._

"_Ah, yes, Severus. Something about the interaction of the Nightjar blood and the willow bark, I remember. But no matter, my boy," –Snape looked like he hated that nickname just as much as Harry did- "You shall soon be released. _

_Snape scowled darkly. "What do you want, Albus?"_

_Dumbledore steepled his hands. "You remember Antonin Dolohov, correct?"_

"_I do," Snape demurred, black eyes glinting, "He's still in Azkaban as far as I know. Has something… happened?"_

"_No no, my dear," Dumbledore assured him, "You misunderstand me. You were comrades with him- I presume you were familiar with his methods?"_

_Snape's face darkened in remembrance. "I was, Headmaster," he said softly, "Far too familiar."_

_The old man smiled. "Wonderful," he proclaimed, "I trust you will be able to recreate them, then-"_

"_What?" A flicker of shock flitted through Snape's shadowed eyes._

"_-On Mr. Potter," Dumbledore finished._

"_WHAT?" _

_Snape, too, looked floored at this second pronouncement, but he still managed to sneer viciously at Harry's outburst. The boy slammed his mouth shut._

"_It's not ideal," Dumbledore continued, oblivious to the outbursts, "but I see no other course of action. This… thing… cannot be known to be Harry. He must be removed from the picture. And the fire Dolohov is so fond of should take care of any suspicious abnormalities on the corpse. I'm so sorry, my dear," Dumbledore told Harry, looking distraught, "but don't you see? This is the only way! It's for the Greater Good. Alive, you're nothing but a monster, a broken chess piece. You can't carry out your purpose looking like this! But with you dead, murdered by Death Eater scum, England will rally behind your memory!"_

_It felt like he'd just been punched in the gut. He couldn't breathe. Dumbledore, good old, slightly batty but generally brilliant Dumbledore, was signing off on his death! And not just signing off on it, he was actually planning it! Planning what to do, how best to manipulate the situation! "You're crazy," Harry breathed, "completely nutters!" _

_Dumbledore shrugged. "Some think so. It's hard to accept, Harry, I know, but sometimes things are bigger than you. Severus?"_

_The dour Potion's Master nodded slowly, face and eyes tight. "I understand, Headmaster."_

"_Good. Do it somewhere outside, if you will, and far away from the castle. I don't want him found to soon. Animals should take care of any irregularities the fire does not."_

_With that, Dumbledore swept from the room, leaving Harry alone with the tool of his destruction._

_A moment passed, and then another. Snape stood with his back to Harry; the boy could hear the man's heart thudding, a steady, unchanging rhythm in his chest. Snape's stillness was terrifying._

_Did he feel nothing for it, then? No hesitance, no guilt? No pleasure, even?_

_And then, at last, the tall, lanky figure turned to face Harry, and the fire in his eyes stole his breath away._

"_Fuck it," he breathed, "I am so screwed."_

_0o0oo0o0_

"Why did you stop?" Logan demanded. "What happened?"

Harry stared at him, eyes distant. "I really though he was going to kill me, you know? Him and my dad- they had this thing in school, and Snape- well, he never really got over it. He hated me more than anything. So I always kinda figured that he'd jump at the chance to kill me."

"But did he?"

Harry blinked slowly.

_0o0o0oo0o_

_Snape didn't say anything to Harry. He just grabbed him by the back of the neck, ripped the manacles roughly from his arms, and proceeded to drag him bodily through the school. No one stopped them. The hallways were empty, deserted for the summer. It seemed that only a few teachers remained there; the rest were gone, home or on vacation somewhere._

_He didn't say anything as he led Harry to his doom. Harry rather thought that was a bad sign._

_When they were several miles into the forest and Harry was about ready to __let_ _Snape kill him just so he wouldn't have to trek through any more dripping, miserable forest, Snape came to a halt._

"_Mr. Potter," he sneered, "I had so hoped to avoid such a situation as this. However, it seems things have become rather more drastic than I had thought. Therefore…"_

_He pointed his wand at Harry and, very deliberately—dropped it._

_Harry blinked. "What?"_

_Snape sneered and shook his head. "Really, Potter, are you deliberately being obtuse? Let me clarify: 'oh dear, I seem to have dropped my wand. I do hope that this terribly dangerous prisoner doesn't __take it!__" he said, in a patently false tone._

_Harry jerked in surprise. "You're helping me?"_

_Snape sneered. "No, you idiot boy, I've just suddenly become quite clumsy. In a few moments, I expect I shall develop problems with my vision as well."_

"_What?"_

_Snape closed his eyes. "Get on with it, you dunce!"_

"_Ah."_

_Snape turned his back on Harry. "Dumbledore will be expecting me back within the hour. Take the wand. Go through the forest. As soon as you get outside the ward, use it to make a portkey. Incantation is 'Portus'. You'll need to have a very clear destination in mind, but it's not exactly difficult. May I suggest somewhere out of the country? Dumbledore will have people looking for you the moment I tell him you aren't dead, so don't stay anywhere he'll expect you. Do you understand?"_

"_Why are you doing this?" Harry whispered. He had been prepared to die, but this? "You hate me…"_

_Snape looked tired. "I owed your father my life. In repayment for that debt, he asked me to… look after you. Consider this fulfillment of that oath. Now go."_

_Harry went, shooting one last bewildered look over his shoulder as Snape's small form disappeared among the shadows of the trees._

_O0o0o0o_

Harry faltered. "And that was it," he said simply. "I left."

Logan didn't look convinced. "Just like that?"

Harry shrugged. "What were you expecting, a novel? That's it. The end. There is no more."

"You do realize this sounds nuts, right?"

Harry rolled his head on his neck. After talking for so long, his jaw was aching and his mouth closely resembled the sands of the Mohave desert. "Oh yeah," he assured Logan sarcastically, "I know. You asked."

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have a headache," he told Harry. "You think your 'magic' can do a little something about that?" He snorted mockingly. "God, this is so goddamn _weird._"

Harry grinned. "Don't I know it." He swiftly reached out a hand and poked Logan in the forehead, releasing a cool stream of his power into the man. Logan jerked and fell over.

"What the hell?" the mutant growled, "What was that!"

Harry blinked at the violent reaction. "That was me doing a 'little something' about your headache. It's gone, right?"

Logan paused, carefully feeling his head. "Well, uh… huh. Whaddaya know? That's some nifty trick you got there, kid."

The cat-boy grinned and shrugged easily. "The joys of magic," he proclaimed, "Tremble at my Advil-like powers."

0o00o00o

**there can be no excuses for why exactly we disappeared of the face of the earth for so long. suffice to say that we do apologise most sincerely, and...**

**actually, we offer no promises that this won't happen again. it most likely will. (why do you think we're called HOLOGRAMmatical, huh? it sure ain't for our tech skills) But hopefully this stub of a chapter will tide you over until we can get out a more developed chapter. Remember, we love each and every one of our reviewers, even if we dont reply (and we're telling you right now, we probably wont. we're forgetful/lazy like that.)**

**Until next time: Hologrammatical, over and out.**


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